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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


DMaM 


' 


EMILY,  [^  JAN  9   1934  ' 


^ 


2/o 


OTHER    POEMS 


/J 

BY  J.  NEWTON  BROWN. 


Me  poetry  (or  rather  notes  that  aim 
Feebly  and  vainly  at  poetic  fame) 
Employs,  shut  out  from  more  important  views, 
Fast  by  the  banks  of  the  slow- winding  Ouse ; 
Content,  if  thus  sequestered,  I  may  raise 
A  monitor's  though  not  a  poet's  praise  5 
And  while  I  teach  an  art  too  little  known, 
To  close  life  wisely,  may  not  waste  my  own. 

Cov>per. 


CONCORD,  N.  H. 
PUBLISHED   BY    ISRAEL  S.  BOYD. 

1840. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1840, 

By  J.  Newton  Brown, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  New-Hampshire 


STEREOTYPED    AND    PRINTED    BY 

D.    WATSON,    CONCORD,  N.  H. 


TO   MY  CHRISTIAN   PASTOR, 

Who  first  taught  me  the  two  important  lessons— that  poetic 
talent,  like  every  other  gift  of  God,  imposes  upon  its  possessor 
a  responsibility  to  cultivate  and  employ  it,  in  obedience  to  His 
will,  for  the  benefit  of  mankind  ;— and  that,  as  the  world  will 
always  continue  to  read  Poetry,  so  the  more  of  Christian  Poetry 
in  the  world,  the  better  ;— 

REV.  AVERY   BRIGGS,  A.M., 

FORMEBLY    PROFESSOR    OF    LANGUAGES    IN    WATERVILLE 
COLLEGE,    MAINE  J 

NOW    PRINCIPAL    OF    THE    PIERCE    ACADEMT, 
MIDDLEBOROUGH,    MASS.  ', 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 

BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


During  a  lingering  but  most  blessed  sick- 
ness, three  years  ago,  the  author  employed  such 
moments  of  strength  as  were  aiTorded  him,  in 
preparing  for  the  press  the  present  collection 
of  his  earlier  poems.  About  one  third  of  them 
have  already  appeared  before  the  public  in 
various  prints,  and  been  received  with  a  de- 
gree of  approbation,  that  encourages  him  to 
present  the  rest.  It  is  due  both  to  the  public 
and  himself  to  say,  that  pieces  of  the  earliest 
date  here  given,  have  been  generally  re- 
touched, some  retrenched,  and  some  few  ex- 
tended. 

Another  volume,  composed  of  his  later 
poems,  is  in  contemplation.  Its  appearance 
will  probably  depend  upon  the  success  of  this. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  author  implores  the 
blessing  of  Him, 

1  Whose  frown  ran  disappoint  the  proudest  strain, 
Whose  approbation  prosper  even  mine.' 

JVcto  Hamjrton,  June  29,  1840. 


CONTENTS 


Emily Page  9 

The  Grave  of  my  Parents 20 

Christian  Consolation 22 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf. 24 

Night  Scene 25 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Rev.  Richard  Cecil 27 

The  Thunder  Storm 28 

A  Summer  Evening 29 

Taste,  not  Religion 31 

The  Burning  Bush 32 

Moral  Death 34 

Vision  of  Heaven 36 

Christian  Conversation 38 

The  Mustard-Seed 45 

To  the  Author  of  Don  Juan 46 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  S 47 

Epitaph  on  Granville  Malcom 47 

Midnight  Thought 48 

Creation  49 

On  the  New  Year 49 

The  Sun  rising  through  Clouds 50 

The  Child  of  Brading  Dale 52 

Lines  on  the  sudden  Death  of  Mrs.  Jane  P 54 

To  a  young  Friend,  one  whom  the  Author  never  ex- 
pected to  see  again 56 

The  Friend  of  God 58 

Faith  and  Sense 60 

Gibbon   61 

Sunrise 62 

Christ's  Sufferings  and  Glory G3 

Heaven 67 

A  Son  g  of  Heaven 68 

Creation  subject  to  Vanity 70 

Sorrow  sanctified 72 

The  Rose  and  the  Evergreen 74 

1* 


?1  CONTENTS. 

To  a  little  Girl 75 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Mercy  Smith 75 

The  Beauty  of  Israel ~~i 

Love  79 

Music 80 

The  Burial  Ground,  Hudson,  X.  Y 81 

Fenelon's  four  Rules  for  Preachers 89 

The  Nativity 62 

The  Herald  of  the  Lord 85 

Kindred  Parting 87 

The  happy  Boy 89 

Hints  to  a  young  Preacher 89 

Bp.  Lowth's  Epitaph  on  his  Daughter,with  Translations  90 
Annie,  Daughter  of  Prof.  Farish,  of  Cambridge,  Eng.  .  92 

Acrostic 94 

The  Goodness  of  God 95 

The  Greatness  of  God 95 

Youthful  Friendship 96 

The  Consumptive 98 

On  viewing  a  Skeleton 102 

Mrs.  Fry  at  Newgate 105 

The  Christian  Missionary 109 

On  the  Death  of  Rev.  Edward  W.  Wheelock 110 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness 112 

Sympathy 114 

On  returning  from  a  Journey 115 

The  Christian's  last  Conflict 115 

Strike  the  loud  Lyre 118 

Thoughts  at  the  Grave 120 

The  Death-Bed  Warning  of  Miss  L \Y 122 

From  Zion'sHill 123 

Sapphira 124 

The  Lamb  of  God 125 

The  Falls  of  Niagara 126 

To  Caroline — an  Acrostic 130 

Lines  addressed  to  the  Sister  of  a  Female  Missionary.  .130 

Entrance  into  Heaven 132 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  L J 133 

On  the  Death  of  an  aged  Christian 134 

To  the  Mother  of  Lucy  Ann 135 

To  the  Sisters  of  Lucy  Ann 136 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

Call  to  Zion 138 

At  Communion 139 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  N B 140 

The  Temptation  of  Christ 141 

Impromptu 142 

On  hearing  the  Bell  toll  for  a  Stranger 143 

The  Apology 144 

Voice  of  departing  Day 145 

A  Character  from  real  Life 146 

The  Sabbath  Bells 149 

Time 150 

My  Sister 150 

The  Work  of  Life 151 

The  Year  of  Life 152 

To  Amanda 155 

Female  Dignity 155 

Religion    156 

The  Fall  of  Turkey 157 

My  native  Land 158 

The  Sea  of  Blood 159 

Latin  Hymn  of  Francis  Xavier,  with  Translations 162 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  my  Father  and  Mother 165 

Adoration 169 

Pleasures  of  Retirement 171 

Banks  of  the  Buffalo 172 

Visit  to  my  native  Place 181 

The  Church  of  God 185 

ToSophrona 187 

To  the  Moon 188 

The  Apostate 192 

The  dying  Sister 192 

The  Death  of  Midshipman  Robert  B.  Coffin 194 

On  the  sudden  Death  of  a  young  Man 196 

New  Year's  Address,  for  Columbian  Centinel,  1822. ...197 

New  Year's  Address,  for  Hamilton  Recorder,  1823 202 

Review  of  the  Year  1824 208 

The  Bard's  first  Ambition 216 

The  Mystery  of  Godliness 217 

On  a  very  sudden  and  affecting  Death 219 

The  Sovereignty  of  God 220 

On  Singing 222 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

A  Husband  to  his  Wife 223 

Elegiac  Lines 226 

Elizabeth 227 

A  Father's  Lament 229 

To  Adeline 230 

To  Louisa 231 

To  Sarah  Ann 232 

Loveliness  of  youthful  Piety 233 

A  Father  to  his  Daughter 233 

Adelaide 234 

The  happy  Family 236 

Messiah's  Kingdom 237 

The  Lord  is  my  Portion 239 


HYMNS. 

Prayer  to  the  Trinity 241 

Prayer  for  the  Holy  Spirit 242 

The  King  of  Terrors 242 

The  Church  in  Sardis 243 

Self-abasement 244 

The  Name  of  Jesus 246 

Millennial  Triumph 247 

Invitation  to  Christ 248 

Efficacy  of  the  Cross 249 

Sufferings  of  Jesus 250 

Redeeming  Love 251 

The  Believer's  Burden 252 

Complete  Safety  in  Christ 253 

A  wandering  Heart  lamented 255 

Supplication 256 

The  Christian  Warfare 258 

In  a  Time  of  Declension 259 

Christian  Conference 2G0 

Reflections  at  a  Social  Meeting 261 


POEMS 


EMILY. 


A  cherished  image  is  before  my  eyes— 
The  image  of  a  sister  whom  I  loved, 
With  tenderness  too  deep  for  earth.     Yet  I 
Must  speak  of  her,  if  I  would  speak  at  all. 
Her  early  character,  and  that  great  change 
Renewing  grace  wrought  in  her  youthful  soul, 
To  fit  her  for  the  service  of  the  skies. 
These  are  the  themes  that  fill  my  heart,  and  these 
Must  murmur  on  my  lyre ;  for  they  are  full 
Of  sweet  and  mournful  music. 

She  was  fair, 
In  youth's  expanding  bloom.     Her  form  was  cast 
In  nature's  finest  mould.     Its  gracefulness 
Drew  Admiration's  eye  and  offered  hand, — 
Offered,  but  unaccepted.     On  her  brow 
Sat  a  sweet  nobleness,  and  in  her  eye, 
Dark  in  its  brilliancy,  intelligence, 
And  filial  tenderness,  and  innocent  hope, 
Shown  forth  in  beauty ;  for  her  soul  was  rich 


10  POEMS. 

In  thought  beyond  her  years.     She  was  the  flower 

Of  all  her  father's  family ;  the  tall 

And  trembling  lily  of  our  common  pride. 

Quick,  yet  discriminating,  was  her  mind, 

And  varied  in  its  power.     Intuitive 

Seemed  her  perception.     Science  was  her  joy, 

And  even  in  its  severest  forms,  to  her 

Still  beautiful,  and  still  its  own  reward. 

She  knew  not  how  to  live  and  not  to  learn. 

Reading  was  recreation  ;  richer  far, 

In  her  esteem,  than  the  routine  of  mirth, 

Or  fashion's  knot,  or  dissipation's  whirl. 

Even  to  excess  she  loved  it.     Night  was  day 

In  the  absorbing  pleasure.     Her  rapt  soul 

Would  wander,  on  Imagination's  wings, 

From  things  that  are,  to  things  which  Fancy's  hands, 

Creative,  has  educed  from  nothingness, 

And  robed  in  rich  and  rainbow  coloring, 

Brilliant  but  transient,  to  fill  up  the  void 

Which  this  world  cannot  fill — the  void  of  mind 

And  heart  unsatisfied.     Illusions  sweet 

Were  these,  and  worthy  to  be  truly  cherished, 

Did  they  not  vanish  in  the  very  hour 

Of  the  soul's  need,  or  still  more  cruel,  turn 

The  dark  and  haunting  traitors  to  our  peace. 

O,  how  unlike  Religion's  blessed  truths, 

Which  open  on  the  soul  a  glorious  world 

Of  intellectual  realities, 

In  which  it  is  to  live,  and  live  forever ! 


POEMS.  11 

Such  was  my  sister — such  as  I  describe — 

When  fifteen  suns  had  shed  their  summers  round  her, 

Adding  fresh  beauty  to  her  form  and  mind; 

The  moral  richness  delicately  pure, 

The  coloring  of  intellectual  life. 

Her  name  was  Emily.     And  when  I  hear 

That  name  pronounced,  a  thousand  melting  thoughts 

Of  her  I  loved  with  all  a  brother's  fondness, 

Gush  o'er  my  memory,  and  my  sad  heart 

Will  gather  fulness,  and  at  times  o'erflow, 

For  she  is  gone  !     Lulled  in  the  sleep  from  which 

The  light  of  morn  awakes  her  not — the  sleep 

Which  even  the  known  voice  of  fraternal  love, 

That  wont  to  break  in  rapture  on  her  ear, 

Is  powerless  now  to  break. 

PART    II. 

A  pensive  shade 
Came  o'er  my  sister's  countenance.     I  saw 
Her  altered  manner,  and  the  serious  air 
Of  fixed  and  deep  and  tender  thoughtfulness, 
The  fondness  for  retirement,  and  the  tear 
Stealing  in  silence  down  her  youthful  cheek, 
As  if  some  secret  fount  of  sorrow  lay 
Concealed  within  her  breast.     What  it  might  be, 
As  yet  I  know  not.     Death  had  not  come  nigh, 
To  throw  his  shadow  o'er  her  happiness  ; 
And  Disappointment,  with  his  serpent  fang, 
Had  not  a  wound  inflicted.     Every  wish 
Which  she  could  form  on  earth,  was  gratified. 


12 


POEMS. 


Hope  gave  its  buoyancy,  and  Health  its  bloom. 

Friendship  encircled  her.     Parental  love 

Grew  every  day  more  lavish  of  its  smiles. 

Books  proffered  still  their  unexhausted  stores, 

And  every  spring  of  past  enjoyment  poured 

Its  copious  streams,  as  fresh,  as  sweet,  methought, 

As  when  together  we  had  tasted  them, 

And  wondered  that  the  world  could  ask  for  more. 

I  sought  to  win  her  back  to  cheerfulness 

By  every  wonted  charm.     It  was  in  vain  I 

Her  favorite  books  awakened  no  interest — 

Fiction,  and  novelty,  and  eloquence, 

The  fruits  of  genius,  and  the  flowers  of  taste, 

The  boasts  of  wit,  the  melodies  of  song, 

Which  once  entranced  her  eye,  her  ear,  her  soul, 

Had  lost  their  power.     Deep  hid  within  her  heart 

Some  over-mastering  principle  had  changed 

The  order  of  her  feelings,  or  at  least 

Laid  a  strong  check  upon  their  wonted  course. 

It  was  in  vain  to  doubt.     The  cause  could  now 

No  longer  be  concealed.         The  solemn  truths 

Of  our  celestial  volume  had  impressed, 

Indelibly,  her  long-reluctant  mind. 

I  knew  not  at  the  time,  and  could  not  know, 
The  struggles  of  her  breast. — What  were  the  views 
Of  her  condition  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
Which  struck  so  silently  into  her  soul, 
And  showed  her  to  herself;  to  what  a  depth 


POEMS.  13 

They  penetrated  ;  and  with  what  a  power 
Of  moral  revolution  they  had  wrought, 
I  did  not  know  as  since,  and  faintly  felt 
The  grandeur  of  those  interests  which  engaged 
Her  whole  attention.     I  had  then  no  taste 
For  such  inquiries,  and  I  let  them  pass, 
For  what  to  me  were  far  more  welcome  themes. 
We  had  been  confidants  ;  but  not  to  me 
Did  she  unfold  these  sorrows,  for  she  knew 
I  could  not  sympathize  nor  counsel  here. 
E'en  that  maternal  bosom,  where  she  leaned 
Her  drooping  head,  and  poured  her  secret  grief, 
Assured  of  every  soothing  sympathy 
And  salutary  counsel  love  could  give, 
Drawn  from  the  stores  of  large  experience, 
Hallowed   by  prayer,  and  breathing  strong  of  hea- 
ven,— 
E'en  that  maternal  bosom,  faithful,  fond, 
And  full  of  feeling  as  it  was,  ne'er  knew 
The  intensity  of  that  internal  strife 
That  bowed  my  sister  o'er  the  sacred  page, 
And  brought  her,  wrestling,  to  the  throne  of  God.* 

PART    III. 

Her's  was  a  Godly  sorrow,  and  it  wrought 
Repentance  not  to  be  repented  of. 

*  Extract  from  her  MS.  Journal : — "  Known  only  to  Him 
who  seeth  the  heart  were  my  feelings  at  that  period,  and 
indeed  through  the  whole  time  I  have  glanced  over,  with  what 
emotions  I  searched  His  word,  with  what  anguish  of  soul  I 
bowed  before  him." 
2 


14  POEMS. 

He  who  came  down  from  heaven,  to  be  to  man 

The  Author  and  the  Messenger  of  Peace, 

And  comfort  all  that  mourn,  appointed  her 

Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil  of  joy 

And  robes  of  praise,  for  thoughts  of  heaviness  J 

And,  faithful  to  His  promises,  shed  down 

Upon  her  bruised  spirit  such  a  balm 

As  faith  alone  receives.     It  was  the  hour 

Of  prayer  when  she  received  it,  and  that  hour 

Forever  after  lived  in  memory, 

And  in  its  all-controlling  influence. 

Her  soul,  which  erst  had  drooped,  e'en  as  a  rose 

Surcharged  with  rain,  again  was  lifted  up 

To  meet  the  healing  Sun  of  Righteousness, 

Imbibing  deeper  and  more  delicate  hues, 

And  sending  sweeter  fragrance  to  the  skies. 

How  was  she  changed  !     When  next  again  we  met 

The  painful  heaviness  had  left  her  brow, 

And  in  its  stead  a  bright  serenity 

Spoke  of  the  peace  within.     If  in  her  eye 

A  tear  would  sometimes  swell,  'twas  rapture's  tear; 

And  if  a  sorrow  seemed  to  linger  yet, 

?Twas  but  the  tender  sympathy  of  love 

For  those  she  longed  and  prayed  for,  whom  she  saw 

Still  in  the  ruin  from  which  she  was  saved — 

And  such  was  her  anxiety  for  me. 

There  was  an  inward  majesty  of  mind, 

Unlike  what  I  had  ever  seen  before, 

Mingled  with  all  the  sweetness  of  her  love, 


POEMS.  15 

Attractive,  yet  o'erawing.     'Twas  as  though 

Her  mind  had  looked  on  everlasting  things, 

And  caught  the  image  of  their  majesty, 

E'en  in  the  days  of  youth.     It  was  not  pride, 

For  meekness  did  invest  her  as  a  robe. 

It  was  a  fount  of  heavenly  purity, 

A  deep,  deep  sense  of  inward  happiness, 

Forever  flowing  from  unearthly  springs, 

With  which  her  soul  seemed  full -to  overflowing, 

And  every  feature  eloquently  gushed. 


My  mind  was  stirred  with  agitating  thoughts, 

At  intervals,  about  my  sister's  change  ; 

Sometimes  disposed  to  think  of  it  with  pleasure, 

And  then  again  with  peevishness  and  pain. 

She  seemed  not  less,  but  more,  to  love  me  now. 

Her  gentle  looks,  and  tones,  and  offices, 

Were  far  more  constant,  tender,  uniform; 

Yet  still  I  felt  a  strange  reluctance  oft, 

Within  me,  to  her  sweet  society. 

For  now  I  could  not  share  her  happiness 

As  heretofore,  when,  with  congenial  taste, 

Our  hearts  drank  pleasure  from  the  self-same  springs 

Of  knowledge,  fancy,  memory,  hope,  and  joy. 

To  these  my  heart  still  clung,  as  innocent, 

And,  in  the  judgment  of  the  world,  far  more 

Than  innocent,  as  ennobling,  and  enough, 

Without  devotion's  higher  mysteries, 

And  talisman  of  mightier  power,  to  charm 


16  POEMS. 

Life's  toilsome  way;  and  therefore  wondered  why 
She  should,  in  leaving  them,  abandon  me  ; 
As  though  no  more  a  sister,  but  superior, 
Claiming  companionship  with  higher  ranks, 
And  purer  forms  of  intellectual  being. 

And  yet  in  vain  I  strove  to  shut  my  eyes 

To  the  improvement  in  her  character. 

From  what  a  height,  it  seemed,  she  did  look  down 

Upon  my  follies  with  a  pitying  eye, 

And  on  my  sins  with  grief;  as  if  in  them 

She  saw  not  only  my  offence,  but  hers, 

Long  past,  against  Eternal  Holiness  ! 

O'er  my  forgetfulness  of  God  she  grieved — 

My  disobedienoe  and  ingratitude — 

My  waste  of  time — abuse  of  privilege — 

Unhallowed  tempers — thoughts  of  vanity — 

Pride  of  appearance — pride  of  intellect, 

Attainments,  social  virtues,  influence — 

And,  more  than  all,  o'er  talents  unemployed 

For  God,  and  inexcusable  neglect 

(Too  visible,  alas  !  in  all  I  did) 

Of  the  yet  unprized  soul,  whose  fearful*  peril 

She  realized  too  truly.     All  its  worth 

She  saw  in  its  great  ransom ;  when  from  heaven 

The  Eternal  Son  came  down,  shrouding  the  blaze 

Of  infinite  attributes,  to  this  outcast  world, 

And  gave  Himself  to  the  all-perfect  Law, 

In  our  dread  place,  a  spotless  sacrifice  ! 

O,  it  was  this  self-sacrificing  love 


POEMS.  17 

That  stamped  its  image  on  my  sister's  heart ! 

And  there  were  moments  I  could  not  but  feel 

It  was  a  real  and  a  lovely  change. 

Old  things  were  passed  away.     All  things  were  new 

In  her  esteem  and  her  experience, 

Since  she  in  Christ  believed,  and  by  his  cross 

Felt  the  world  crucified  to  her,  and  saw 

A  new  creation  in  its  light  arise, 

Fairer  than  Eden  in  its  primal  bloom, 

Fixed  on  the  basis  of  eternity. 

It  was  a  happy  change,  I  owned,  for  her, 
But  still  I  felt  no  gladdening  sympathy. 
And  often  in  my  pride,  when  she  would  come, 
And  sitting  by  me,  with  a  sister's  fondness, 
Throw  her  soft  arm  o'er  my  unwilling  neck, 
And  speak  to  me  of  Jesus  crucified, 
Until  my  soul,  o'ermastered,  bowed  beneath 
Her  voice,  dissolved  in  weeping  tenderness — 
Even  in  the  midst  of  such  a  scene,  bow  oft 
I  would  have  torn  me  from  her  fond  embrace, 
And  scorned  the  love  that  moved  me  so  to  tears ! 


As  yet  the  stream  of  life  had  gently  flowed 
In  the  sweet  channels  of  domestic  love, 
Nor  knew  an  interruption.     I  had  dreamed 
Life  was  a  kind  of  immortality. 
But  in  an  awful  and  unlooked-for  hour, 
A  storm  burst  on  this  quiet  of  our  home. 
2* 


18  POEMS. 

Death  came,  in  quick  succession,  and  removed 

The  father,  then  the  mother,  who  had  watched 

Over  our  cherished  childhood.     In  their  lives 

Lovely — and  undivided  in  their  death — 

They  left  us  with  their  blessings  and  their  prayers, 

(Inestimable  legacies  indeed  ! 

Although  their  worth  be  little  understood,) 

A  group  of  lonely  orphans. 

Then,  O,  then, 
I  first  awoke  from  error's  flattering  dream, 
To  feel  the  stern  realities  of  life  ! 
Stung  suddenly  by  the  repeated  stroke, 
My  heart  was  fearfully  wound  up  to  curse 
The  Holy  Hand  which  had  inflicted  it— 
The  Holy  Hand  which  woundeth  but  to  heal ! 
For  it  did  seem  to  me  that  I  was  made 
A  solitary  and  selected  mark 
Of  unprovoked  and  wanton  cruelty. 
Such  was  the  madness  of  my  bitter  thoughts, 
In  that  dark  hour  of  horror.     O,  forgive, 
Father  in  heaven  !  the  inward  blasphemy 
Of  my  rebellious  passions. 

How  unlike 
To  this  the  bearing  of  my  sister  dear, 
Under  the  awful  shock  !  To  the  ccld  grave 
She  followed  all  her  gentle  spirit  loved, 
(And  none  could  love  more  deeply,)  sorrowing 
With  sweet,  submissive  faith,  and  holy  hope, 
And  earnest  prayer,  to  be  herself  prepared 
To  do  the  work  of  life,  till  she  might  be 


POEMS.  19 


Fit  to  depart  from  earth,  and  follow  them 
To  their  eternal  rest  and  joy  in  heaven. 


There  came  a  separation  ;  and  a  year, 
A  long,  long  year  of  absence  passed  away, 
Ere  I  again  beheld  her.     In  that  time 
My  soul  had  found  the  Savior  she  adored, 
And  joined  in  adoration.     When  we  met, 
It  was  as  we  had  never  loved  before ; 
Our  hearts  were  knit  in  new,  celestial  ties, 
And  every  hope  was  shared  in  unison, 
And  every  sorrow  mingled. 

Arm  in  arm 
We  visited  the  sacred  spot  where  slept 
The  ashes  of  our  parents,  and  reviewed 
The  soothing  memory  of  their  pious  worth, 
Instructions,  and  examples  ;  till  it  seemed 
To  weeping  fancy,  as  the  day's  last  beam 
Fell  on  us  with  a  sweet  solemnity, 
Their  yet  fond  spirits  gently  hovered  near, 
And  blessed  the  scene  ! 

Or,  to  the  house  of  God, 
When  summoned  on  the  silent  Sabbath  morn, 
Taking  sweet  counsel,  walked  in  company, 
To  bow  our  hearts  in  worship,  and  to  blend 
Our  souls  and  voices  in  the  song  of  praise, 
To  drink  divine  instruction,  and  put  on 
The  habitudes  and  spirit  of  that  world, 
Where  Vvre  had  fixed  our  everlasting  rest. 


20  POEMS. 

But  I  must  cease.     Those  graves,  that  house  of  God, 
I  visit  sad  and  .solitary  now  ! 
April  29,  1824—7. 


THE    GRAVE    OF    MY    PARENTS. 

The  bed  of  my  parents  is  narrow  and  deep, 
Yet  soft  is  their  slumber,  and  sweet  is  their  sleep  ; 
Their  children  in  vain  o'er  their  damp  pillow  weep, 
And  utter  their  sorrows  mournfully. 

The  pastor  lies  pillowed  in  dust  by  their  side, 
To  whom  in  close  friendship  their  hearts  were  allied ; 
But  in  youth  he  afar  from  his  relatives  died, 
And  there  he  reposes  peacefully.* 

*  The  ltev.  Hervey  Jenks,  A.  M.  The  author  seizes  with 
pleasure  the  opportunity  here  afforded  of  noticing  this  excellent 
man  and  minister  of  Christ,  who,  to  the  deep  regret  of  multi- 
tudes of  every  class  in  the  community,  was  cut  down  as  a 
flower,  at  the  age  of  28  years.  He  was  a  native  of  Stockhridge, 
Mass.,  a  graduate  of  Brown  University,  and  for  two  years  the 
fondly  beloved  pastor  of  the  Baptist  church  in  Hudson,  N.  Y. 
His  talents  were  of  the  first  order,  exalted  and  consecrated  by 
a  piety  of  the  most  seraphic  fervor.  Before  his  marriage,  and 
for  some  time  after,  he  was  an  inmate  of  my  father's  family. 
His  widow  and  one  child  are,  I  believe,  still  living.  He  died 
suddenly  of  a  fever,  in  July,  1814,  triumphing  in  Christian 
hope.  My  father  watched  his  dying  pillow,  and,  when  laid 
upon  his  own,  three  years  after,  his  dying  request  was,  "  Bury 
me  by  the  side  of  my  dear  minister  and  friend — Mr.  Jenks." 


POEMS.  21 

They  dwell  near  together,  but  mute  is  the  tongue 
On  whose  pious  instructions  with  rapture  they  hung, 
And  in  silence,  the  clods  of  the  valley  among, 

Are  the  friends  who  once  loved  so  tenderly. 

Around  their  dark  dwelling  the  wild  tempest  raves, 
Above  it  the  hemlock  still  mournfully  waves, 
But  the  evergreen  lifts  its  bright  leaf  on  their  graves, 
Emblem  of  their  immortality  ! 

As  in  life,  so  in  death,  they  were  strangers  to  fame, 
No  sepulchral  stone  is  inscribed  with  their  name,* 
And  the  sculptor  ne'er  labored  with  art  to  proclaim 
Their  faith,  or  their  hope,  or  their  charity. 

But  theirs  is  a  record  emblazoned  on  high, 

And  although  the  green  turf  on  their  bodies  now  lie, 

Their  spirits  exult  in  the  bright,  blissful  sky, 

And  reign  with  the  Savior  gloriously. 

Then,  while  we  are  mourning  the  stroke  of  the  rod, 
We  no  longer  will  dwell  on  the  mouldering  sod, 
But  believe  in  their  Savior,  and  trust  in  their  God, 
And  follow  the  path  of  their  piety. 

Then,  when  the  last  trumpet  resounds  in  the  skies, 
And  the  sleepers  in  dust  from  their  slumbers  arise, 
We  shall  meet  them  in  peace  with  ecstatic  surprise, 
And  share  in  their  pleasures  eternally. 
Hamilton,  (JV.  Y.)  1820 

*  This  was  true  at  the  time  these  lines  were  written,  though 
not  at  present. 


22  POEMS. 


CHRISTIAN    CONSOLATION. 

Say,  stranger,  hast  thou  e'er  in  life  been  led, 

By  Pity's  impulse  or  Affection's  call, 
To  the  sad  chamber  and  the  lonely  bed, 

O'er  which  Affliction  spreads  her  sable  pall ; 
Say,  hast  thou  ever  drank  that  cup  of  gall 

Which  sin  has  mingled  for  our  wretched  race, 
What  time  the  hand  of  stern  disease  doth  fall 

On  one  whom  friendship,  in  its  warm  embrace, 
Hath   bound  unto  thy   heart  with  each   endearing 
grace  ? 

Yes,  thou  hast  gazed  upon  that  well-known  form, 

Now  slowly  sinking  in  the  arms  of  death  ! 
Thou  hast  hung  o"er,  with  fond  affection  warm, 

That  pale,  cold  brow  !  hast  watched  each  gasp  for 
breath, 
And  traced  each  change  of  hue  that  travelleth 

O'er  that  dear  cheek ;  and  thrilled  at  every  throe 
Of  thy  beloved,  Death's  fearful  hand  beneath, 

And  felt  that  there  were  depths  in  human  woe 
Beyond  what  others  tell,  beyond  what  others  know. 

But  the  dread  moment  came  ;  and  the  faint  breath 
Ceased,  and  the  hand  thine  own  hand  clasped, 
grew  cold, 


POEMS.  23 

And  all  the  fearful  certainties  of  death 

In  one  dread  moment  o'er  thy  spirit  rolled  ; 

And  bitter  tears  bedewed  the  lifeless  mould, 
And  earth  seemed  desolate  in  thy  despair. 

O,  say  what  influence  sweet  thy  heart  consoled 
In  that  deep  agony  ? — Faith's  holy  prayer, 

Lifting  the  heart  to  Heaven — and  its  Redeemer  there! 

This  is  thy  triumph,  Christianity  ! 

And  I,  adoring,  bow  before  the  shrine 
Of  Him  whose  lovely  image  thou  must  be — 

Thy  nature  proves  thine  origin  divine  ! 
O,  let  thy  holy  light  around  me  shine, 

While  traversing  earth's  darkling  wilderness  ! 
Then,  though  I  suffer,  I  shall  not  repine, 

But  evermore  the  hand  that  chastens  bless— 
It  is  a  Father's  hand  of  truth  and  tenderness ! 
1821. 


24  POEMS. 

THE    FALL    OF    THE    LEAF. 

"  We  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf."— Isaiah. 
Underneath  a  dark  beech  sitting, 

Faded  was  the  foliage  all ; 
Close  beside  me  gently  flitting, 

I  beheld  a  brown  leaf  fall. 

Much,  I  thought,  doth  this  resemble 
Man,  although  his  foolish  pride 

Would  incline  him  to  dissemble, 
And  his  real  frailty  hide. 

Like  the  leaf  before  me  lying, 
Fair  and  flourishing  he  grew  ; 

Youth,  the  moral  spring,  supplying 
Health  and  vigor  ever  new. 

Once  this  leaf  was  brightly  verdant, 
Waving  in  the  summer  breeze ; 

So,  in  youth,  man's  hope  is  ardent, 
And  the  world's  gay  trifles  please. 

Swiftly  passes  by  the  summer, 
Autumn  hastens,  sear  and  brown ; 

And  this  cold,  unwelcome  comer 
Flings  the  withered  foliage  down. 

Thus  with  man — his  life  as  fleeting — 
Swiftly  pass  his  moments  all  ; 


POEMS.  25 


Till  the  bitter  death-blast  meeting, 
Like  the  seared  leaf  he  must  fall. 

But  a  world  there  is  eternal — 
Where,  emerging  from  the  sod, 

Saints  shall  bloom,  forever  vernal, 
In  the  paradise  of  God  ! 
Oct.  1821. 


NIGHT    SCENE. 

I  look  above — no  cloud  on  high 
Veils  the  deep  azure  of  the  sky  j 
All  is  serene,  and  cool,  and  clear, 
And  tranquil  glory  triumphs  here  ! 

Yon  moon  is  full — her  lustre  pure, 
Walks  radiant  through  the  vast  obscure  ; 
And  overbears,  with  splendor  bright, 
Each  feebly  glimmering  star  of  night. 

Soft  is  the  light  she  sheds  abroad, 
The  mellow  beam  sleeps  on  the  road ; 
While  wood,  and  stream,  and  hill,  and  vale, 
Rise  up  beneath  her  influence  pale. 

Soft  blows  the  breeze — the  air  is  cool — 
The  stillness  soothes  to  peace  the  soul ; 
3 


26  l'OEMS. 

At  leisure  with  my  friends  I  walk, 
And  of  surrounding  objects  talk. 

I  listen,  but  I  hear  no  sound, 
Save  the  lone  cricket's  chirp  around  J 
One  now  might  hear  his  very  breath 
Amid  this  mimic  hush  of  death  ! 

How  can  I  otherwise  than  draw, 
In  such  a  scene,  the  breath  of  awe  ? 
How  can  my  heart  refuse  to  feel 
A  pensive  sweetness  o'er  it  steal  r 

I  envy  not  the  man  who  sees, 
Unmoved,  such  solemn  scenes  as  these ; 
The  mind  which,  bound  in  atheist  thrall, 
Owns  not  the  God  that  made  them  all. 

I  see  His  hand — I  feel  His  power — 
Bow  down,  my  soul,  and  Him  adore  ! 
And  let  this  night  begin  with  thee 
The  worship  of  eternity  ! 

A  few  more  moments  roll  in  haste, 
And  Time  will  be  forever  past ! 
A  day  will  dawn — the  night  be  o'er— 
A  sun  shall  rise,  to  set  no  more  ! 
July  31,  1821. 


POEMS.  27 


MEMORY    OF    THE    REV.    RICHARD    CECIL. 

His  mind  with  heavenly  principles  imbued, 

Loved  the  deep  calm  of  holy  solitude  ; 

There  his  great  spirit,  as  his  foot  would  tread 

Their  ashes,  mingled  with  the  mighty  dead, 

And,  musing  on  the  end  of  rank  and  birth, 

Felt  deep  the  vanity  of  things  on  earth. 

And  what  were   wealth,  and  fame,  and  pomp,  and 

power, 
But  the  frail  pageants  of  a  feverish  hour? 
And  what  were  science,  with  her  ample  store, 
And  letters  rich  in  fancy's  various  lore, 
Affection's  softer  beam,  or  friendship's  ray, 
But  dreams  that  vanish  at  the  dawn  of  day  ? 
The  world  rang  hollow  underneath  his  feet, 
For  death  was  nigh,  and  death  disclosed  the  cheat. 
Sickened  and  sad,  to  Heaven  he  turned  his  eyes, 
And  sought  for  purer  pleasures  in  the  skies, 
To  faith  unfolded,  and  by  promise  sure 
To  all  who  meekly  to  the  end  endure. 
Heaven — Heaven  he  seeks — no  respite — no  delay — 
To  Heaven  he  wings  his  never  wearying  way ; 
And  Heaven  appears — and  in  that  blessed  abode 
His  soul  forgets  the  struggles  of  the  road, 
In  sweet  repose  upon  the  bosom  of  her  God. 

1821. 


28  POEMS. 


THE  THUNDER    STORM. 

See,  in  the  darkened  west, 

The  awful  tempest  rise  ! 
The  clouds  with  their  own  weight  opprest, 

Roll  slowly  up  the  skies. 

Look,  how  the  lightnings  gleam, 
Bright  through  the  gloom  profound, 

And  pour  one  broadly  flashing  stream 
Of  terror  all  around. 

Steadily  comes  the  storm ; 

The  heavy  clouds  are  near ; 
The  thunder  sounds  the  loud  alarm 

Of  elemental  war. 

High  rises  the  rolling  dust, 

Darkness  involves  the  town  ; 
But  lo  !  the  tempest  above  has  burst, 

And  the  rain  comes  rushing  down  ! 

Incessantly,  peal  on  peal, 

The  crashing  thunders  break  ; 

Where  is  the  sense  that  does  not  feel, 
The  ear  that  does  not  ache  ? 

Yet,  terror,  I  bid  thee  flee  ! 
My  God  directs  the  storm  ; 


POEMS.  29 

I  see  Him  awful  in  majesty, 
And  I  hush  my  wild  alarm. 

Roll  on,  ye  thunders,  roll ! 

I  list  with  tranquil  brow ; 
Though  trembles  e'en  the  solid  pole, 

Ye  cannot  daunt  me  now. 

Flash,  lightnings,  flash  again  ' 

Dart  fires  on  fires  abroad ; 
Rush  down  in  torrents,  impetuous  rain  ! 

Sweep,  deluge,  along  the  road  ! 

Ye  are  but  the  servants  all 

Of  the  glorious  King  of  kings  ! 
He  bids  the  thunderbolts  harmless  fall, 

And  shelters  me  under  his  wings. 
Hudson,  JV.  Y.  Aug.  1821. 


A    SUMMER    EVENING. 

The  sun  has  gone  down,  and  the  shadows  of  even 
Have  quenched  the  fierce  glowing  of  earth  and  of 

heaven ; 
Care's  heaviest  pressure  is  gone  with  the  day, 
And  the  world's  thousand  murmurs  are  dying  away. 

How  soft  is  the  breath  of  the  zephyr  and  cool, 

How  soothing  the  thoughts  that  steal  into  the  soul ! 


30  POEMS. 

As,  locked  arm  in  arm  with  the  friends  that  I  love, 
O'er  hill  and  o'er  valley  at  leisure  I  rove. 

I  rove,  but  in  silence — entranced  is  my  eye — 
Not  a  cloud  veils  the  face  of  the  beautiful  sky  '- 
And  its  measureless  depths  are  all  clearly  displayed, 
As  though  fancy  might  float  through  the   worlds  it 
surveyed. 

The  full  moon  is  pouring  a  silvery  hue, 
From  her  slow-moving  throne,  o'er  the  ocean  of  blue; 
And  far  round  her  presence  the  stars  are  unseen, 
Their  lustre  eclipsed  in  her  glorious  sheen. 

How  solemn,  how  soft,  and  how  holy,  the  hour  ! 
It  touches  the  soul  with  a  magical  power  ; 
And  the  mind  takes  the  color  by  nature  impressed, 
Like  the  woodland's  still  height,  and  the  river's  calm 
breast. 

I  envy  not  him,  who,  mid  grandeur  like  this, 

Feels  not  in  devotion  a  tenderer  bliss ; 

To  whom  night,  with  its   stillness   and  stars,  brings 

no  thought 
Of  the  hand  which  this  glorious  universe  wrought. 

O  man  most  unhappy  !     What  shutteth  thine  eye 
To  the  presence  of  God  in  the  earth  and  the  sky  ? 
By  what  spell  is  the  force  of  thine  intellect  bound, 
That  God  should  be  near  thee,  yet  never  be  found  f 


POEMS.  31 

For  me,  the  deep  calm  of  this  beautiful  even 
Expands  every  thought,  and  exalts  it  to  heaven ; 
Where,  enthroned  in  His  glory,  creation  above, 
Reigns  Jehovah  of  Hosts  in  the  might  of  His  love. 

Look  round,  and  contemplate  the  works  of  his  power; 
Thou  art  in  that  temple  where  angels  adore ; 
Thou  art  in  that  temple — His  voice  is  to  thee — 
And  He  claimeth  the  homage  of  heart  and  of  knee. 

O,  yield  Him  that  homage,  for  time  haste th  fast, 
And  there  cometh  a  night  which  to  thee  is  the  last ! 
If  thou  worship  Him  not  ere  the  day-breaking  sun, 
Thy  work  for  eternity  is  not  begun. 
1621. 


TASTE;  NOT    BELIGION. 

Versified  from  Chalmers'  Astronomical  Discourses 

What  !  must  a  man  true  piety  possess, 

And  all  its  soul-subduing  influence  know ; 
Ere  from  some  lofty  Alpine  wilderness, 

He  feels  the  majesty  of  scenes  below, 
Which  nature's  hand  before  his  eye  may  throw; 

The  sounding  waterfall — the  rugged  steep — 
And  pinnacles  of  everlasting  snow — 

And  the  horizon's  proudly  circling  sweep, 
Folding  in  its  embrace  the  undulating  deep  ! 


*$£  POEMS. 

Ah,  no  !  an  infidel  himself  might  feel 

His  bosom  glow  at  that  stupendous  sight ; 
And  even  the  atheist,  with  heart  of  steel, 

Who  sees  not  God,  though  manifested  bright, 
Might  catch  the  thrill  of  rapturous  delight, 

Ere  that  rich  vision  from  his  eye  be  chased. — 
Doubtful  criterions  that  the  heart  is  right ; 

Poor  touchstones,  Sensibility  and  Taste  ; 
And  woe  to  him  whose  hopes  on  this  bright  sand 
are  based  i 
1821. 


THE    BURNING    BUSH. 

Low  in  the  vale,  whence,  rising  high, 

Mount  Horeb  mingles  with  the  sky, 

Where  the  broad  rocks  their  shadow  spread, 

To  shield  the  fainting  shepherds  head, 

When  in  his  radiant  course  the  sun 

The  burning  height  of  heaven  has  won; — 

At  dawn  of  day  a  shepherd  strayed, 

Ere  yet  the  mist  had  left  the  glade, 

In  holy  meditation  lost, 

Till  the  dark  stream  his  footsteps  crossed. 

He  paused — then  turned  his  step  again, 

Where  lay  his  sheep  upon  the  plain ; 


33 


Wound  round  the  intervening  hill, 

Absorbed  in  meditation  still. 

But  ere  his  eye  beheld  his  flock, 

From  underneath  the  jutting  rock 

A  flame  burst  forth  !  He  turns  his  eyes 

Towards  the  strange  sight  with  deep  surprise  ; 

A  bush  was  all  on  fire — yet,  still 

Stood  unconsumed  upon  the  hill ! 

Unknowing  what  could  be  the  cause 

Of  this  reverse  of  Nature's  laws, 

Silent  awhile  the  shepherd  stood  ; 

Then  slow  approached  in  anxious  mood, 

More  narrowly  to  scrutinize 

This  object  of  his  just  surprise ; 

For  ne'er  before,  he  well  presumed, 

A  bush  on  flame  was  not  consumed ; 

When  from  the  glowing  flame  there  broke 

A  voice,  which  thus,  like  thunder,  spoke  : — 

1  Moses  !   the  Eternal  God  I  am 

1  Of  Israel,  Isaac,  Abraham  ! 

'  Death  the  relation  cannot  break 

'  That  binds  my  servants  unto  me  ; 

'  I  love  their  offspring  for  their  sake, 

*  And  I  am  come  to  set  them  free. 

1  Think  not  to  me  their  grief's  unknown, 

'  Who  now  in  Egypt's  bondage  groan. 

'  Their  prayers  I  hear,  their  tears  I  see, 

1  And  now  commission  give  to  thee 


34  POEMS. 

1  To  rescue  them  from  Pharaoh's  hand, 
4  And  lead  them  to  the  Promised  Land. — 
'  Fear  not ;  though  myriad  foes  assail, 
'  Jehovah's  promise  cannot  fail !' 
1620. 


MORAL     DEATH. 

I  have  sat  alone  in  the  dead  of  night, 

The  vigils  of  sorrow  keeping ; 
I  have  counted  the  hours  in  their  tardy  flight, 

While  around  me  all  were  sleeping. 

When  the  taper  burnt  dim  with  a  fitful  flame, 
By  turns  on  the  cold  wall  gleaming ; 

I  have  watched  the  shadows  that  went  and  came, 
Like  spirits  of  darkness  seeming. 

Armed  as  I  was  with  a  reckless  heart, 

At  moments,  however  unwilling, 
I  have  felt  the  sudden  and  shuddering  start 

Of  fear  through  my  bosom  thrilling. 

For  stretched  on  the  bed,  and  but  half  revealed, 

An  ashy  form  was  lying ; 
And  the  bloodless  lips,  they  were  closely  sealed, 

From  them  there  was  no  replying. 


POEMS.  35 

And  in  dreamless  slumber  the  eyes  were  closed, 

And  the  heart,  it  heaved  not  ever ; 
For  the  Angel  of  death  had  his  hand  imposed, 

And  stilled  its  throb  forever. 

That  scene  was  awful — but  sadder  still 

Is  one  sight  at  which  I  sicken — 
A  deeper  and  darker  and  colder  thrill 

Of  grief  through  my  soul  is  stricken — 

For  there  is  a  death  of  another  kind, 

Ere  the  flight  of  the  soul  is  taken ; 
When  the  Spirit  of  Virtue  hath  left  the  mind, 

Desolate — cold — forsaken  ! 

Ah  !  what  then  availeth  or  life  or  health, 

Or  the  mantling  glow  of  beauty  ; 
The  honors  of  rank,  or  the  splendors  of  wealth, 

When  the  heart  loves  not  its  duty  ! 

The  wretch  without  Virtue  may  breathe  and  move, 

Yet  'tis  but  a  spectre  you're  seeing ; 
For  his  heart  is  void  of  that  vital  love, 

Which  with  God  gives  man  a  being  I" 
1821. 

*  1  Cor.  xiii.  1—3. 


36  POEMS. 


VISTON    OF    HEAVEN. 

Now  will  I  look  to  those  blest  plains, 

Beyond  death's  swelling  flood  ; 
Where  an  eternal  rest  remains 

For  all  the  sons  of  God. 
O,  what  transporting  scenes  of  bliss 

Burst  on  my  raptured  view  ! 
There  God,  my  heavenly  Father,  is, 

And  there  my  brethren,  too. 

There  my  best  loved,  exalted  Friend, 

My  Jesus,  lives  and  reigns  ; 
And  the  sweet  smile  of  rapture  sends 

Through  all  the  blissful  plains. 
While,  bending  round  his  glorious  throne, 

Adoring  millions  fall ; 
Confess  the  glory  is  his  own, 

And  crown  him  Lord  of  all. 

There,  as  the  moments  sweetly  roll, 

New  thousands  reach  the  shore, 
Where  love  shall  every  grief  control, 

And  they  shall  weep  no  more. 
Now  their  triumphant  songs  arise 

To  God's  eternal  grace ; 
And  the  full  chorus  of  the  skies 

Joins  in  the  Savior's  praise  : — 


■ 


toems.  37 

{  Worthy  is  He  who  suffered  loss, 

And  laid  his  glory  down, 
For  us  to  bleed  upon  the  cross, 

Of  Heaven's  eternal  crown  ! 
Roll  on,  roll  on,  ye  heavenly  years, 

His  glory  now  we  see  ; 
Nor  sin,  nor  death,  nor  pains,  nor  fears, 

Mar  our  eternity  !' — 

But  here,  o'erpowered  with  deep  delight, 

I  lose  the  heavenly  strain ; 
The  blissful  vision  leaves  my  sight, 

And  earth  returns  again. 
Dear  Lord,  and  must  death's  narrow  stream 

Confine  me  longer  here  ? 
O  !  let  some  glimpse  of  glory  beam, 

My  longing  soul  to  cheer. 

Prepare  me  for  that  happy  land, 

Where  sin  disturbs  no  more  ; 
Then  let  me  hear  the  sweet  command 

To  leave  this  mortal  shore. 
Fearless  I'll  plunge  in  Jordan's  flood, 

With  Canaan  in  my  view  ; 
And  thine  own  arm,  my  Savior  God, 

Shall  bear  me  safely  through. 
March,  1820. 
4 


db  POEMS. 

CHRISTIAN  CONVERSATION. 

THE    INTRODUCTION. 

Say,  hast  thou  e'er,  at  dawn  of  summer  day, 

Breathing  the  freshness  of  the  morning  air, 
Roamed  o'er  the  fields  before  the  sun's  first  ray 

Had  on  them  poured  its  eye-bedimming  glare, 
Brushing  the  dewdrops  from  the  green  parterre, 

What  time  the  young  bird  carolled  on  the  spray, 
Praise  for  his  Maker's  providential  care, 

(Ah,  keen  rebuke  to  such  as  never  pray  !) 
As  if  from  angel's  lips  he  caught  the  grateful  lay  r 

What  though  the  nestling  had  but  just  begun 

To  tune  to  melody  his  little  throat  ? 
What  though  as  yet  he  soared  not  to  the  sun, 

On  buoyant  wing  in  the  clear  air  to  float  ? 
What  though  some  harshness  mingled  with  tne  note 

Which  mellower  age,  it  may  be,  might  o'ercome  ? 
Didst  thou  not  on  the  unfledged  warbler  dote  ? 

If  so,  then,  haply,  thou  wilt  list,  at  home, 
Strains   humbler   far    than   those   which    greet  thy 
morning  roam. 

O,  list,  and  chide  not,  though  he  be  so  young,* 
Him  whose  weak  essays  in  these  lines  are  found, 

*  These  lines  were  addressed  originally  to  a  lady,  who  had 
requested  some  poetical  composition  from  the  pen  of  the  au- 
thor, without  giving  a  theme.     The  author  was  then  17. 


POEMS.  39 

O,  chide  him  not  as  daring,  that  he  strung 

On  such  a  theme  his  lyre,  whose  gentle  sound 

Perchance  may  soothe  him  when  his  griefs  abound — 
Perchance  may  breathe  in  other  bosoms  peace — 

Or  pour  some  loftier  strain  of  warning  round, 
When  peril  threatens  piety  at  ease, 

And  edifying  themes  from  conversation  oease. 

PART    I.       THE    REBUKE. 

Eternal  Spirit  !  who,  on  Bethlehem's  plains, 

Taught  Judah's  king  to  sweep  the  hallowed  lyre; 
Whose  inspiration  woke  Isaiah's  strains, 

Till  truth's  warm  torrent  gushed  from  lips  of  fire; 
With  trembling  I  invoke  Thee.     O,  inspire 

Thoughts  not  unworthy  of  those  holy  men  ; 
(And  if  not  more  than  man  may  now  desire,) 

Omniscient  Spirit  !   let  thy  light  again 
Irradiate  my  mind,  and  guide  my  trembling  pen. 

'Tis  in  thy  light  I  see,  and  sadly  show, 

How  those  who  have  exulted  in  thy  grace, 
And  felt  the  deep  unutterable  glow 

Of  love  enfolding  in  its  strong  embrace 
Its  Christian  brethren  and  the  human  race — 

As  flowers  when  smitten  by  untimely  frost — 
How  these  their  heaven-born  dignity  debase, 

By  worldly  complaisance — how  lightly  tost, 
As  reason's  helm  were  gone,  or   hope's  firm  anchor 
lost! 


40  POEMS. 

Ah  !  who  dare  ask  without  the  blush  of  shame, 

When  haply  friends  and  follow  Christians  meet, 
How  often  the  adored  Rcdkemxs'a  name, 

His  own  disciples  with  delight  repeat  ? 
How  often  they,  in  conversation  sweet, 

Dwell  on  the  wisdom  of  Jehovah's  ways; 
His  works  with  beauty,  grandeur,  grace,  replete, 

His  benefits,  which  load  their  rolling  days, 
To  swell  the  sum  of  joy  and  gash  in  songs  of  praise  ? 

In  sad  reverse  of  these  celestial  themes, 

Adapted  well  to  wean  the  soul  from  earth, 
Direct  thine  eye  where  yonder  candle  gleams, 

And  Christian  friends  surround  the  blazing  hearth. 
To  what  employment  does  the  time  give  birth  ? 

Do  they  hold  converse  high  on  things  divine  ? 
Ah,  no  !  but  subjects  of  inferior  worth, 

On  which  the  Muse  is  loath  to  waste  a  line, 
Are  brought  as  offerings  meet,  and  laid  at  Fashion's 
shrine. 

The  Fashion  of  the  world  !     Away  !  away  ! — 

What  vain  discourse  assails  the  listening  ear  ! 
Deem  you  that  grace  may  dictate  what  they  say  ?* 

Hark  to  the  idle  tale — the  laugh — the  jeer — 
O  God  !  can  these  be  Christians  that  I  hear  ? 

Where  is  their  reverence  for  thy  cause  and  name  ? 
Where  is  their  love  ?  where,  where,  their  filial  fear? 

O  for  the  burning  blush  of  holy  shame, 
And  tears  of  penitence,  such  as  from  Peter  came ! 

*  Let  your  speech  be  always  with  grace,  &c. — Col.  iv.  6. 


POEMS.  41 

Who  that  beheld,  could  think  to  them  'twas  given, 

Far,  far  beyond  this  earth's  contracted  scene, 
To  lift  in  faith  a  filial  e}*e  to  heaven, 

And  find  a  home  amid  its  dazzling  sheen  ? 
That  a  few  moments  only  intervene 

Their  full  enjoyment  of  immortal  bliss; 
And  these  vouchsafed  in  tenderness  to  wean 

Their  pure  affections  from  the  world  that  is — 
Ah  !  who  that  heard  them  now,  could  well  distin- 
guish this  ? 

What  exquisite  infatuation  blinds 

Their  hearts,  to  spend  these  precious  moments  so . 
What  dark-wove  spell  has  seized  their  heavenward 
minds 

Unseen,  and  chained  them  down  to  things  below  ? 
Were  they  not  warned  in  time  ?     Did  they  not  know 

The  arts  of  the  Enchanter  ?     Knew  they  not 
The  tying  lustre  he  has  power  to  throw 

O'er  the  world's  veriest  bubbles,  and  to  blot 
Eternity  from  sight? — They  knew ;  hut  they  forgot! 

Though  keenly  she  rebuke,  blame  not  the  Muse 
That  she  in  love  assumes  the  chastening  rod — 

At  times  she  ought.     O,  'tis  a  vile  abuse, 
If  she  forsakes  the  service  of  her  God. 

Unawed  by  guilty  Fashion's  tyrant  nod, 

The  Muse  of  Truth  indignant  warning  gave, 

Where'er  the  foot  of  Vice  or  Folly  trod ; 
4* 


42  POEMS. 

No  favor  from  the  vicious  docs  she  crave — 
Their  clamor  she  contemns,  their  vengeance  she 
can  brave. 

PART    II.       THE    ENCOURAGEMENT. 

Doing  as  others  do  !     This  is  the  source 

Of  half  our  errors,  and  the  constant  foe 
Of  all  improvement.     But  the  silent  force 

Of  bad  example,  what  can  overthrow  ? 
Balance  it  by  a  mightier  ?     Let  the  glow 

In  the  pierced  Heart  of  Calvary  sanctify 
Thine  own.    Could  earth  enchant  thee  then  ?  O,  no. 

On  wings  of  love  thy  joyful  soul  would  fly, 
And  hold  communion  sweet  with  those  above  the  sky. 

Speak  thou,  who  on  the  bosom  of  thy  Lord 

Didst  lean  !  the  Christian's  privilege  unfold. 
Tell  us  the  transport  which  in  every  chord 

Of  the  full  heart  awoke  in  days  of  c^d, 
When  Christians  met.     O,  let  it  wide  be  told, 

How  Christians  with  each  other  did  commune. 
And  what  but  faith  grown  weak,  or  love  waxed  cold, 

Could  check  that  sacred  fellowship  so  soon  ? 
Endearing  fellowship  !    Holds  earth  so  rich  a  boon  ? 

Seest  thou  yon  shepherds,  guardians  of  the  flock, 
Now  gently  slumbering  on  that  starlight  plain  ? 

*  "These  things  declare  we  unto  you,  that  ye  may  have 
fellowship  with  us.  And  truly  our  fellowship  is  with  the 
Father  and  with  his  Son  Jesus  Christ."— 1  John  i.  3. 


poems.  43 

Know  ye  the  charm  by  which  they  sweetly  mock 
The  hours  of  midnight's  solitary  reign  ? 

Approach,  and  listen.     'Tis  the  solemn  strain 
Of  minds  long  wont  to  scan  the  sacred  page 

Of  prophecy.     Nor  do  they  scan  in  vain ; 
For  now  has  come  the  long-predicted  age, 

The  great  Messiah  comes,  their  boast  and  heritage ! 

And  who  are  those  that  hold  their  lonely  walk 

Toward  yon  small  village,  at  the  close  of  day  i 
Sadness  is  on  their  brow,  and  still  they  talk 

Of  a  loved  Master  death  has  torn  away ; 
Of  hopes  too  high  and  holy  to  betray. 

Though  clouded  now.     Lo  !  ere  the  daylight  dies, 
A  friendly  stranger  joins  them  on  their  way, 

In  sacred  converse.     What  is  their  surprise, 
When   their  loved  Master  stands  revealed   before 
their  eyes  ! 

And  thus  oft  since,  O  Christian  !  when  thy  soul, 

Sunk  in  the  sadness  of  its  silent  grief, 
Has  from  the  bosom  of  retirement  stole, 

To  seek  in  Christian  intercourse  relief. 
Were  not  those  moments  blest,  however  brief? 

Moments  of  sweetness,  far  to  be  preferred 
Before  all  worldly  joy  ?  but  chief,  O,  chief, 

When  favored  with  the  presence  of  the  Lord, 
Did  not   your   heart   then   burn  within  you   at  his 
word  ? 


44  POEMS. 

Unroll  the  records  of  the  days  of  yore,* 

When  those  who  feared  Jehovah'sglorious  name, 
Each  to  his  brother  told  his  feelings  o'er, 

And  found  in  him  a  sympathizing  frame  ; 
And  oft  the  gush  of  inspiration  came 

Through  bosoms  glowing  with  fraternal  love  ; 
And  mutual  converse  fanned  the  rising  flame, 

And  souls  were  mingled  like  the  blest  above, 
Where  broods,  with  outspread  wing,  the  Everlasting 
Dove! 

Blest  intercourse  !  to  God  and  angels  known — 

For  while  they  thus  commune  of  things  divine, 
Jehovah  hears,  and  from  his  glorious  throne 

Bids  heaven's  bright  record  treasure  every  line  ; 
And  in  the  book  of  life  their  names  shall  shine, 

When  kings  and  conquerors  undistinguished  fade. 
Them  He  appropriates, — '  They  shall  be  mine' — 

Them  He  esteems  his  glory — they  are  made 
To  glow  in  jewelled  radiance  when  yon  sun  is  shade. 

And  does  the  Lord  of  all  things  thus  regard 
Those  whose  delight  is  in  his  name  below, 

Who  love  to  meditate  his  sacred  word, 
And  daily  in  celestial  knowledge  grow  ? 

And  will  he  such  transcendent  favor  show 
To  those  who  oft  make  mention  of  his  name  ? 

*  "  Then  they  that  feared  the  Lord  spake  often  one  to  an- 
other; and  the  Lord  hearkened  and  heard  it:  and  a  book  of 
remembrance  was  written  before  him  for  them  that  feared  the 
Lord,  and  that  thought  upon  his  name,"  &c— Mai.  iii.  16,  17. 


POEMS.  45 

Christians  !  this  blessedness  ye  all  may  know. 
And  thou,  Most  Holy  !  every  heart  inflame 
With  quenchless  love  and  zeal  thy  glory  to  proclaim. 
Hamilton,  JV.  Y.  May,  1821. 


THE    MUSTARD-SEED. 
Matt.  xiii.  31,  32. 

To  what  shall  I  liken  the  kingdom  of  God  ? 
To  a  man  who  a  very  small  mustard-seed  took, 
And,  despite  of  its  littleness,  carefully  sowed 
Where  the  soil  was  enriched  by  a  neighboring  brook. 

Beneath  the  warm  sunbeam  it  sprouted  and  grew, 
And  green  was  the  foliage  of  beauty  it  wore  ; 
And  lofty  and  large  were  its  limbs  to  the  view, 
Though  the  seed,  of  all  seeds,  was  the  smallest  before. 

Now  a  tree  of  great  size,  wide  its  branches  extend, 
And  shelter  and  shade  to  the  weary  it  shows ; 
And  the  birds  of  the  air  on  its  verdure  depend, 
And  beneath  its  broad  shadow  in  safety  repose. 

Thus,  though  small  its  beginning,  the  kingdom  of 

God 
Is  destined  to  flourish,  to  grow,  and  increase, 
And  spread  itself  wider  and  wider  abroad, 
Till  the  whole  earth  repose  in  its  shadow  of  peace. 
1620. 


46  POEMS. 


TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  DON  JUAN. 

Grieved  to  condemn,  the  Muse  must  still  1«3  just, 
Nor  spare  melodious  advocates  of  lust. 

English  Bard*  aiul  Scotch  Reviewer*. 

Lord  of  the  lecherous  lyre  !  away,  away  ! 
Ask  not  for  sympathy  with  such  a  mind; 
Virtue,  indignant,  spurns  poetic  sway, 
When  basely  wielded  to  corrupt  mankind. 

Away  !  the  witchery  of  thy  wanton  song 
Steals  to  young  hearts  voluptuous  access ; 
But  while  the  notes  roll  the  charmed  ear  along, 
The  soul  is  prisoned  in  Sin's  foul  caress. 

Sorcerer  !  thou  holdest  an  enchanted  cup, 
Drugged  by  no  fabled  Circe's  magic  art; 
There  are  who've  drunk  its  fatal  contents  up, 
And  felt  the  venom  shoot  through  all  the  heart 

Away  !   and  bear  with  thee  that  living  lyre  ! 
'Tis  wreathed  with  spotted  serpents,  and  its  breath, 
Like  the  soft  song  of  Scj'lla's  syren  choir, 
Though  rich  in  melody,  is  rank  with  death. 
1821 


POEMS.  47 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MRS.     S- 


WIFE   OF  J G.   S ,   ESQ.,  OF   HAMILTON,  N.  Y. 

The  knell  of  death  is  tolling  in  the  ear, 
The  snowy  shroud  is  dazzling  on  the  eye ; 
And  awe-struck  multitudes  are  gathering  near, 
To  gaze,  and  weep,  and  learn  that  they  must  die. 

Is  this  our  friend  ?    Hush,  stranger — not  a  breath  ! 
Perhaps  she  yet  may  speak  to  us  again  : — 
Ah,  no  !  this  stillness  is  the  hush  of  death — 
Our  love,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears,  are  vain. 

1822. 


INFANT   SON   OF   REV.   HOWARD   MALCOM. 

Sweet  bud  of  love  !  and  art  thou  dead, 
And  mouldering  in  this  silent  tomb, 
In  whom  our  fond  affections  read 
Such  hopes  of  life's  expanding  bloom  ? — 
But  cease  these  tears — thou  are  not  lost ; 
We  know  the  Hand  that  took  thee  hence ; 
And,  though  our  fondest  hopes  are  crossed, 
We  could  not,  would  not,  wish  thee  thence. 
1824. 


48  POEMS. 

MIDNIGHT    THOUGHT. 

The  wing  of  night  o'er  earth  is  furled, 
No  sound  upon  the  stillness  breaks ; 

Oblivion  wraps  the  slumbering  world, 
But  ray  glad  spirit  wakes. 

I  feel  the  deep,  exquisite  charm 

With  which  this  silent  hour  is  fraught ; 

Peace  sheds  upon  my  soul  her  balm 
Of  meditative  thought. 

My  grateful  heart  ascends  on  high, 
To  Him  who  his  own  Israel  keeps, 

And  thinks,  while  we  forgetful  lie, 
He  slumbers  not,  nor  sleeps. 

O,  from  his  glorious  throne  of  light, 
In  wakeful  tenderness  He  bends, 

And  through  the  dangers  of  the  night 
His  helpless  ones  defends. 

And  while  they  slumber  on  their  beds, 
He  still  the  play  of  life  sustains 

In  every  power,  and  softly  sheds 
Sweet  solace  on  their  pains. 

E'en  in  this  solemn,  silent  hour, 

His  eye  of  love  looks  down  on  me — 

My  Father  !  curtained  by  thy  power, 
I  think  of  none  but  Thee. 

Norwich^.  Y.  July  30,  1821. 


POEMS.  40 

CREATION. 

A     FRAGMENT 

When  first  the  Almighty  formed  the  spacious  earth, 
And  from  dark  chaos  gave  fair  Nature  birth, 
With  all  her  vast  variety  of  form, 
From  the  huge  mammoth  to  the  insect  worm, 
The  lofty  mountain,  and  the  spacious  flood, — 
His  eye  beheld,  his  voice  pronounced  it  good. 
Then,  chief  of  all  his  works,  to  crown  the  plan 
Of  heavenly  wisdom,  He  created  man ; 
Fashioned  the  dust  that  should  o'er  nature  sway, 
And  stamped  his  image  on  the  ennobled  clay. 
1819. 


ON    THE    NEW    YEAR. 

Time  rolls  along.     Upon  the  rugged  tide, 

An  Eye,  unseen,  incessant  watch  is  keeping; 
A  thousand  monuments  of  human  pride, 

He  sees  adown  the  rapid  current  sweeping; 
He  sees  fond  man  o'er  many  a  relic  weeping, 

With  fruitless  efforts  to  regain  the  spoil, 
From  rock  to  rock  o'er  the  dark  torrent  leaping, 

Till,  wearied  out  with  unsuccessful  toil, 
He  finds  beneath  the  wave  release  from  mortal  coil. 

Time  rolls  along.     And  now  another  year 

Has  from  the  pregnant  future  sprung  to  birth ; 


50 


POEMS. 


Sweet  childhood's  jubilee  rings  far  and  near, 

And  man  with  joy  his  fellow  hails  on  earth — 
Alive,  while  many  of  superior  worth 

Perhaps  are  sleeping  in  their  lowly  bed, 
Shall  I  then  dedicate  this  day  to  mirth  ? 

No  !  solemn  thought  and  high  be  mine  instead — > 
Thee,  thee,  I  haste  to  meet,  O  Judge  of  quick  and 
dead  ! 
Hamilton,  Jan.  1,  1823. 


THE    SUN    RISING    THROUGH    CLOUDS. 

Admire,  my  soul,  the  splendid  show 
Presented  mid  this  morning's  glow ; 

See,  see  the  orb  of  day  arise  ! 
See,  what  a  flood  of  light  is  poured, 
Where  but  of  late  the  darkness  lowered 

O'er  the  whole  circle  of  the  skies  ! 

Behold  these  clouds,  which  lately  cast 
Their  dusky  mantle  o'er  the  east, 

As  if  to  shroud  the  morning  ray ; 
But,  O  !  in  vain  that  veil  was  spread ; 
See  how  its  sombre  hues  have  fled 

Before  the  brilliant  beams  of  day. 

Sudden  transformed,  behold  them  now, 
Flushed  with  the  fiery  crimson  glow, 
Fling  their  reflected  gleam  abroad ; 


POEMS.  51 

While,  like  some  conqueror,  whom  foes, 
Vanquished  beneath  his  might,  enclose, 
The  sun  mounts  up  the  heavenly  road. 

And  so,  when  sunk  in  guilt  and  sin, 
The  wretched  state  mankind  were  in, 

Resembled  night's  substantial  gloom  ; 
That  gloom  was  pierced  with  splendor  bright, 
From  the  pure  gospel's  heavenly  light, 

The  light  that  shines  beyond  the  tomb. 

What  opposition  fierce  was  made, 
Lest  these  transforming  rays  pervade 

A  world  to  sin  entirely  given  ! 
The  prince,  the  priest,  the  sophist  sage, 
United  strove  to  blind  the  age, 

And  to  exclude  the  light  of  he-wen. 

But  all  in  vain  '     The  spreading  light 
Chased  far  the  clouds  of  pagan  night, 

And  poured  its  splendor  all  abroad ; 
While  the  bright  Sun  of  Righteousness 
Triumphantly  began  his  race, 

And  shone  the  conquering  Son  of  God ! 
1819 


POEMS. 


THE    CHILD    OF    BRADING    DALE. 

Founded  on  Legh  Richmond's  '  Young  Cottager.5 

0  Memory  !  bring  me  back  the  scene, 
When,  with  my  catechumens  dear, 

1  met  on  yonder  rural  green, 
Their  weekly  exercise  to  hear. 

The  village  churchyard  was  in  sight, 
And  sometimes  I  would  send  them  there, 
To  learn  the  sweet  and  simple  rhymes, 
Which  yet  the  mossy  tombstones  bear. 

Children,  I  once  unto  them  said, 
You  know  full  well  you  all  must  die , 
You  know  that  you  must  join  the  dead, 
Who  in  yon  graves  forgotten  lie. 

Children,  were  you  to  die  this  night, 
Where,  think  you,  would  your  spirits  go  ? 
Would  they  ascend  to  heavenly  light, 
Or  sink  to  darker  worlds  below  ? 

Children,  you  have  your  Savior  grieved, 
His  kind  commands  you've  often  broke. — 
I  paused.     One  heart  the  word  received, 
And  deeply  felt  the  truths  I  spoke. 


POEMS.  53 

Lowly  her  birth  ;  but  like  the  flower 
That  blooms  within  the  lowly  vale, 
Grace  blossomed,  with  celestial  power, 
In  the  sweet  child  of  Brading  Dale. 

Still,  still  I  hear  her  fond  adieu 
As  sitting  by  her  dying  bed, 
She  suddenly  arose,  and  threw 
Her  wasted  arms  around  my  head, — 

And  whispered,  '  'Tis  to  you  I  owe 
My  blessed  hopes — in  Christ — forgiven ; 
I  can  but  feebly  thank  you  now — 
But  we  shall  meet — in  peace — in  heaven.' 

Yes,  we  shall  meet  where  thou  art  gone, 
Thou  sweetest  flower  in  Brading's  dell  ! 
Though  oft  for  thee  my  soul  shall  mourn, 
And  of  thy  gentle  virtues  tell. 

Such  scenes  with  pleasure  I  retrace, 
They  yield  refreshment  to  my  soul ; 
They  cheer  me  in  my  heavenly  race, 
And  make  me  pant  to  reach  the  goal. 
Hudson,  JV.  Y.  1819. 
5* 


54  POEMS. 


LINES, 

OCCASIONED   By  THE  SUDDEN  DEATH  OF  MRS. 
JANE  P ,  OF   HUDSON,  N.  Y. 

Again  th'  alarming  knell  has  struck  the  ear, 
Again  th'  appalling  sight  has  met  the  eye ; 
And  thoughtless  mortals  once  more  trembling  hear 
The  solemn  truth  that  they  are  born  to  die. 

But,  O,  how  sudden  was  the  recent  stroke, 
That  reft  the  spirit  from  its  robe  of  clay  ! 
The  golden  bowl  was  at  the  fountain  broke, 
And  life's  warm  pleasures  passed  at  once  away. 

When  all  around  was  health,  and  peace,  and  joy, 
The  mother  sat  within  her  happy  home, 
And  fixed  for  school  her  brightly-blooming  boy, — 
O,  who  could  dream  that  moment  Death  could  come  ? 

And  yet,  as  if  to  dash  our  hopes  from  earth, 
And  prove  how  brittle  life's  mysterious  chain, 
E'en  in  that  moment  came  the  summons  forth, 
And  all  the  ties  that  bound  her  here  were  vain. 

One  quick,  low  groan — but  one — was  all  we  heard, 
One  backward  movement  faint,  was  all  we  saw ; 
No  farewell  look,  nor  gently-parting  word, 
Broke  the  cold  chill  of  overwhelming  awe. 


poems.  55 

Dim  was  that  eloquent  eye,  and  pale  the  cheek, 
The  pulse  was  still,  the  slender  hand  was  cold ; — 
O,  who  a  husband's  wo,  that  hour,  may  speak 
Her  children's  anguish  who  with  tears  unfold  ? 

So,  when  the  young-fledged  eaglets  try  the  wing, 
The  parent  mother  aids  their  tender  flight, 
Till  some  keen  arrow,  from  a  viewless  string, 
Pierces  the  breast  that  beat  with  fond  delight. 

In  vain  her  partner,  struck  with  sudden  fear, 
To  rouse  her  strives  with  many  a  plaintive  moan ; 
In  vain  her  offspring  seek  to  gain  her  ear — 
Her  love,  her  tenderness,  her  life,  are  gone  ! 

But  we  have  hope  in  a  Redeemer's  word, 
And  our  sad  spirits  hail  the  joyful  beam; 
For,  while  she  lived,  she  lived  unto  the  Lord, 
And  when  she  died,  we  trust   she  died  in  Him. 

Then  to  the  bosom  of  the  faithful  tomb, 
In  humble  hope  her  relics  we  entrust, 
Till  an  eternal  day  disperse  the  gloom, 
And  Jesus'  voice  reanimate  the  dust. 
1819. 


50  POEMS. 


TO    A    YOUNG    FRIEND, 

ONE    WHOM    THE    AUTHOR    NEVER    EXPECTED  TO    SEE 
AGAIN. 

Eccles.  xii. 

The  bloom  is  withering  on  the  cheek — 
The  light  is  fading  from  the  eye — 

The  tongue  will  soon  forget  to  speak — 
The  ear  to  welcome  melody — 
The  springs  of  youth  are  ebbing  dry — 

And  life's  warm  stream  is  waxing  cold, 
Murm'ring  as  it  passes  by — 

'Remember  thou  art  growing  old.' 

****** 

When  all  the  joys  of  earth  decay, 

And  age — if  we  to  age  survive — 
Shall  wither  all  our  strength  away, 

Yet  leave  us  (painful  thought !)  alive  ; 

O,  when  those  cheerless  years  arrive — 
And  come  they  will,  and  come  they  must, 

And  mortal  skill  in  vain  shall  strive 
To  stay  the  change  of  dust  to  dust : — 

Ah,  what  shall  cheer  the  drooping  mind 

In  that  distressing  hour  of  gloom, 
And  bid  it,  hopeful  and  resigned, 

Look  down    into  the  awful  tomb? 


POEMS.  57 

When  nothing  can  avert  the  doom, 
And  gathering  shades  portend  the  night, 

What  shall  the  darksome  scene  illume 
With  hopes  and  joys  divinely  bright  ? 

Tell  me,  my  friend,  O,  tell  me  soon, 

For  days  and  years  are  fleeting  fast, 
And  life's  invaluable  boon 

Cannot,  and  will  not,  ever  last, — 

How  much  is  e'en  already  past ! 
And  who  shall  say  how  near  its  close  ? 

For,  O,  perchance,  some  chilling  blast 
May  blight  its  bud  ere  winter's  snows  ! 

And  should  it  be  ?     O,  speak,  my  friend  ! 

A  voice,  a  voice  within  replies : — 
'  Think,  think  upon  thy  latter  end  ! 

'Improve  this  moment  as  it  flies  !' — 

Lo  !  thy  Creator  from  the  skies 
Utters  his  own  almighty  word  : — 

'  Heir  of  eternity  !  be  wise — 
'Remember  in  thy  youth  the  Lord  !' 

And  can  my  friend  that  voice  refuse  ? 

Can  she  from  Jesus  turn  away  ? 
Will  she  the  hour  of  mercy  lose, 

And  waste  salvation's  golden  day  ? 

O,  turn,  and  see  how  bright  the  way, 
That  leads  thee  on  to  joys  on  high, 

And  everlasting  love  display 
The  melting  scenes  of  Calvary  ! 


58  POEMS. 

Hark  !  o'er  yon  weeping  penitent 
What  touching  strains  of  joy  resound  ! 
Angels  ex,ult  when  men  repent, 
And  golden  harps  ring  out  the  sound  : — 
1  A  child  was  lost,  but  now  is  found, 
*  And  welcomed  to  the  world  of  love, 
'  And  with  its  deathless  glories  crowned, 
4  Shall  triumph  in  the  courts  above  !' 

They  pause.     That  solemn  pause  I  take 
To  ask  if  this  thy  lot  shall  be. 
O,  didst  thou  know  the  heart's  deep  ache 
At  every  thought  of  heaven  and  thee, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  not  that  glory  see, 
Thou  wouldst  forgive  the  tears  that  fell, 
As — haply  till  eternity — 
I  bade  adieu.     Farewell,  farewell ! 
Nov.  10,  1821. 


THE    FRIEND    OF    GOD. 

{  And  he  was  called  the  Friend  of  God.' — James  ii.  23. 

Exalted  privilege  !  endearing  nnme  ! 

Illustrious  title  !   upon  whom  bestowed ! 
Of  mortal  race  who  may  this  glory  claim 

To  be  divinely  called  the  Friend  of  God  ? 


POEMS.  59 

'Tis  Abraham,  when  filled  with  living  faith, 
At  God's  command  he  bound  his  only  child, 

His  Isaac,  doomed  of  Heaven  by  him  to  death, 
Upon  the  altar  his  own  hands  had  piled. 

Behold  him  now — the  glittering  blade  appears 
High  raised  to  sacrifice  the  son  he  loved ; 

When,  lo  !  from  heaven  the  joyful  father  hears 
The  act  forbidden,  but  the  faith  approved. 

And  could  the  obedience  of  faith  so  high 

The  patriarch  raise,  when  near  his  earthly  end  ? 

Did  God  himself  this  wondrous  name  apply, 
Did  God  himself  call  Abraham  his  friend  ? 

He  did ;  for  thus  that  holy  Volume  saith, 

Where  God's  own  record  meets  our  joyful  sight; 

And  still  that  holy  word  assures  us,  faith 
In  the  same  bond  of  friendship  can  unite. 

He,  who  a  suppliant,  seeks  the  heavenly  throne, 
And  sues  for  pardon  through  the  Savior's  cross  ; 

He  who  by  faith  yields  him  to  God  alone, 
And  bows  obedient  to  his  sacred  laws ; — 

He  who  can  give  each  earthly  comfort  up, 
When  God,  his  Father,  bids  him  all  resign ; 

Can  meekly  drink  and  drain  affliction's  cup, 
Yet  never  at  its  bitterness  repine  ; — 


GO 


TOEMS. 


That  man,  howe'er  by  earth  despised,  is  blest 
With  the  same  title,  graciously  bestowed ; 

And  though  of  nought  in  this  wide  world  possest, 
This  is  enough — he  is  the  Friend  of  God  ! 
1821. 


FAITH    AND    SENSE. 

Sense,  stunned  at  sight  of  death,  recoils  and  cries, 
'  Behold,  O  man,  the  doom  that  all  must  share  ! 

1  Gaze  mournfully  upon  those  sealed  eyes — 
'Turn  to  the  grave,  and  wonder,  and  despair." 

But  Faith  beholds  with  different  eye  the  scene, 
Recumbent  on  the  promise  of  her  God ; 

O'er  the  cold  grave  she  bends,  with  brow  serene, 
And  hears  unmoved  the  rattling  of  the  sod. 

Sense  cannot  pierce  the  future,  nor  the  past ; 

The  present,  only,  fills  and  bounds  her  gaze ; — 
Faith  has  a  range  immeasurably  vast, 

And  luminous  with  revelation's  rays. 

Sense  sees  the  wasting  form — the  failing  breath — 

The  mortal  agony — the  terrestrial  loss — 
The  friends  that  weep  around  the  bed  of  death  : — 
But  Faith's  clear  eye  is  fixed  upon  the  cross. 


POEMS.  61 

Sense  at  the  cross  hears  but  the  victim's  cries, 
Sees  but  the  malice  thirsting  for  His  blood ; 
Faith  owns  the  all-atoning  sacrifice, 
And  warms  with  rapture  at  the  love  of  God. 

Sense  sees  the  sepulchre — the  rock — the  gloom — 
The  watch — the  seal — the  full  moon  shining  bright ; 
Faith  sees  the  stone  rolled  from  the  opening  tomb, 
And  immortality  oome  forth  in  light. 
1822. 


GIBBON. 

They  may  tell  me  that  Gibbon,  whose  elegant  mind 

Shed  a  halo  of  glory  o'er  Rome's  latter  day, 
With  a  judgment  so  just,  and  a  taste  so  refined, 

Has  flouted  the  truth  of  the  Bible  away. 
But  though  Gibbon  had  learning,  and  genius,  and 
wit, 
And  keen  were  the  shafts  that  his  irony  threw, 
Yet,  so  blind  was  the  archer,  not  one  of  them  hit — 
My  Bible  still  triumphs,  my  Bible  is  true  ! 
1822. 

6 


POEMS. 


SUNRISE. 


TwAfl  morning,  but  th'  unwearied  6un 
Had  not  his  wonted  course  begun, 

When  I  from  sleep  awoke  ; 
I  sought  the  hill,  with  eye  intent 
Fixed  on  the  eastern  firmament, 

As  night's  dun  shadows  broke. 

The  morning  star  announced  the  dawn, 
As  I  sped  o'er  the  verdant  lawn, 

Wet  with  the  morning  dew ; 
At  length  arrived,  awhile  I  stood, 
In  fixed,  expectant  attitude, 

The  opening  scene  to  view. 

At  length,  a  lucid  gleam  appeared, 
And  nature's  darkened  face  was  cheered 

By  the  reviving  ray; 
The  spreading  lustre  drove  afar 
The  dusky  shades,  and  morning's  star 

Was  lost  in  opening  day. 

A  few  dark  clouds  I  marked  on  high, 
Moving  in  sullen  majesty ; 

But  as  the  east  they  passed, 
Sudden  they  caught  its  brilliant  hue, 
And  full  on  my  delighted  view 

Their  streaming  splendors  cast. 


POEMS. 

At  last,  the  sun  himself  arose — 
A  living  fire  his  centre  glows ; 

Thence  issuing,  far  and  wide, 
Like  streams  of  gold,  his  dazzling  rays 
Form  an  insufferable  blaze. — 

Earth  laughs  on  every  side  ! 


Effulgent  orb  !  though  mortal  sight 
Is  cheered  and  dazzled  by  the  light 

That  from  thy  presence  springs  ; 
More  blest  are  they,  upon  whose  eyes 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  shall  rise 

With  healing  in  his  wings  ! 
1819. 


63 


Christ's  sufferings  and  glory. 

Ought  not  Christ  to  have  suffered  these  things,  and  to  enter 
into  his  glory  ?' — Luke  xxiv.  Q6. 


And  what,  then,  didst  thou  suffer,  Son  of  God? 
Fain  would  my  soul  go  back  to  Calvary, 
And  there  behold  the  crisis  of  thy  woes, 
And  learn  the  straitness  of  that  fearful  pass, 
Through  which  thy  way  was  urged  in  agony 


64  POEMS. 

Up  to  the  gates  of  glory-     Let  me  taste 
Thy  bitter  cup,  and  feel  the  heavy  swell 
Of  thine  o'erwhelming  baptism,  as  the  flood 
Of  wrath  rolls  high  o'er  thy  devoted  head, 
And  sounds  the  long-resounding  knell  of  sin. 

And  is  it  thou,  upon  that  tort'ring  cross, 

Hemmed  in  by  cruel  foes,  athirst  for  blood, 

Thou  with  the  thorny  crown  !  that  angels  see — 

Astonished  see,  rapt  into  mute  amaze  ? — 

'Tis  thou  !   'tis  thou  !  in  mortal  flesh  revealed, 

To  make  thyself  our  sacrifice  !  to  bear 

The  crushing  burden  of  our  ponderous  guilt, 

And  save  us  from  a  ruin  infinite  ! 

Behind  Humanity's  dark,  suffering  cloud, 

The  glory  of  thy  Deity  eclipsed 

To  every  eye,  save  of  the  Cherubim  ! — 

And  still,  though  centuries  have  passed  away, 

Still  are  their  thoughts  in  wonder  riveted 

On  what,  that  day,  they  saw. 

Surprising  scene  ! 
Mysterious  spectacle  !     Their  glorious  Lord, 
Whose  praise  they  erst  had  hymned  in  heaven  above, 
Now  on  the  tree  of  shame  !  his  hands  and  feet 
Pierced  by  the  rugged  spikes  !   fast  pouring  out 
Life  in  the  crimson  streams      Yet  meek,  resigned, 
His  fainting  head  reclining  on  his  breast ! 
His  soul  in  pity  melting  o'er  his  foes  ! 
His  dying  eye  still  languishing  in  love  ! 
His  lips,  soft  murmuring  in  prayer,  'Forgive, 


POEMS.  65 

Father  !  my  murderers  know  not  what  they  do !' 
Then  closed  in  death's  pale  beauty. — 

See,  around, 
Consenting  Nature  owns  her  suffering  Lord ; 
Weeps  o'er  the  bloody  tragedy ;  averts 
From  the  tremendous  scene  the  eye  of  day : 
Around  her  draws  dark  midnight's  awful  veil ; 
A  mortal  sickness  settling  on  her  heart, 
And  her  whole  frame  with  deep  convulsion  shook, 
Like  one  in  sudden  terrors. — See  yon  rocks 
Cleave  wide,  as  by  the  piercing  wedge  of  frost ; 
And  yonder  tombs  do  open  in  our  sight 
Their  marble  lips,  as  if  they  did  protest 
Against  the  murderers  of  the  Lamb  of  God  ! 
No  wonder  yon  affrighted  multitudes 
Homeward  return,  in  wild  disorder  pale, 
Smiting  their  breasts,  as  conscious  of  the  deed 
That  dims  the  world  with  this  unnatural  gloom ! 

O  sinner,  come  with  me,  and  let  us  gaze 
Upon  this  scene — this  miracle  of  wo, 
Until  we  realize  it  was  for  us ! 
And  our  full  hearts  o'errlow  with  gratitude, 
With  wondering  gratitude,  and  grief  for  sin, 
Such  as  doth  well  become  us,  sinful  men ! 


Rise,  now,  my  soul,  in  contemplation  high, 
On  faith's  celestial  wing,  arise,  arise, 
6* 


66  POEMS. 

Up  to  those  realms  of  blessedness,  to  which 
Christ,  thy  Forerunner,  in  his  glory  ro^e  ! 

See  there  thy  Savior  sits  !  exalted  high 
O'er  thrones,  and  principalities,  and  powers; 
The  Godhead  shining  through  the  human  form, 
And  smiling  joys  ineffable  on  all 
The  glittering  ranks  of  saints  and  seraphim, 
Who  pour  around  his  throne,  and  fill  the  house 
Of  God's  almightiness. — O  glorious 
Transfiguration  !  not,  as  on  the  mount, 
A  little  space  his  hidden  rays  shone  forth, 
With  partial  brightness,  to  a  chosen  few, — 
But  public,  perfect,  permanent,  divine  ! 

Bright  as  the  light  the  robe,  whose  waving  folds 

Mantle  his  limbs  immortal,  and  display 

The  perfect  form  of  human  dignity, 

Irradiate  with  divine  intelligence, 

Infinite  power,  and  majesty  supreme, 

Softened  with  condescension  infinite, 

And  everlasting  love  !     Not  half  so  fair 

The  rosy  dawn,  when,  brightening  in  the  east, 

The  first  pure  tints  light  up  the  smiling  morn, 

Kindling  earth's  rapture. 

Not  the  noonday  sun, 
When,  with  collected  rays  in  all  his  strength, 
He  shoots  his  splendors  o'er  the  burning  sky, 
Can  with  the  Savior's  countenance  compare  ! 
Beneath  his  glance,  tho'  fraught  with  smiling  love, 


POEMS.  C7 

Sink  angels  and  archangels,  all  abashed, 
Dazzled,  o'erpowered,  in  love  and  wonder  lost, 
Prostrate  in  adoration.     How  much  more, 
Then,  man,  for  whom  he  died  !  to  glory  raised, 
From  infinite  depths  of  guilt,  and  shame,  and  wo  ! 

And  chief,  my  soul,  my  trembling  soul,  redeemed 
At  price  so  vast !  forgiven  such  deep  offence  ! 
Not  once  alone,  so  many  times  forgiven  ! 
Nor  yet  alone  forgiven,  adopted  too, 
A  child  of  God !   an  heir  !  joint  heir  with  Christ  ! 
Partaker  of  his  Spirit  and  his  love, 
And  sharer  in  his  blest  eternity  ! — 
Tears,  gushing  tears,  must  speak  thy  thanks  on  earth, 
Till  thou  shalt  offer  worthier  praise  in  heaven. 
January  1,  1321. 


HEAVEN. 

'  If  ye  then  be  risen  with  Christ,  seek  those  things  which 
are  above,  where  Christ  sitteth  on  the  right  hand  of  God." — 
Col.  iii.  1. 

There  shalt  thou  see,  on  Zion's  holy  hill, 
Th'  unnumbered  millions  of  the  angel  host, 

Rank  rising  over  rank  in  brightness,  till 
In  the  effulgence  of  the  Savior  lost ! 

Light,  by  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  uncrost, 
Forever  pours  its  radiance  all  around ; 


68  POEMS. 

There  saints,  whom  once  conflicting  billows  tosi. 
With  diadems  of  endless  glory  crowned, 
Forget  the  pains  and  toils  which  erst  on  earth  they 
found. 


Wake,    Christian,    wake  !      Let   this    delightful 
thought 
Spread  its  sweet  influence  through  thy  sluggish 
mind, 
Till,  to  the  lofty  pitch  of  transport  wrought, 
It  leave  this  world  of  nothingness  behind, 
And  soar  aloft,  substantial  good  to  find — 
God,  heaven,  Christ,  angels,  saints  now  perfect 
made, 
Love  ever  pure,  and  happiness  refined — 
The  golden  streets  of  heaven  with  rapture  tread, 
Where  Christ,  thy  Savior  reigns,  the  whole  crea- 
tion's head. 
1821. 


X    SONG    OF    HEAVEN. 

O,  how  supremely  blest  the  place, 
(I  fain  would  die  to  see,) 

Where  Jesus  shines  in  all  his  grace 
And  glorious  majesty  ! 


POEMS. 

Where  every  heart  and  every  tongue 

Burns  with  untiring  zeal ; 
And  gratitude  inspires  the  song 

They  love  to  sing  so  well. 

Praise  to  the  Lamb  that  once  was  slain, 

Employs  each  tuneful  breath, 
Assured  they  ne'er  shall  sin  again, 

Nor  taste  the  pang  of  death. 
Hark,  how  they  swell  the  joyful  sound ; 

And  as  they  sweetly  sing, 
Not  one  discordant  harp  is  found, 

Not  one  discordant  string  ! 

Now,  in  some  sweet,  celestial  grove, 
They  wander,  arm  in  arm, 

While  Jesus'  overshadowing  love 
Secures  from  all  alarm. 

Now,  in  broad  streams  of  life  and  peace, 
Their  joyful  spirits  lave  ; 

Nor  shall  their  pleasures  ever  cease- 
Heaven  does  not  hold  a  grave 

And  can  so  vile  a  wretch  as  I 

E'er  share  in  joys  so  great, 
And  mingle  in  that  company 

That  round  the  Savior  wait  ? 
O,  then,  methinks,  my  thankful  soul 

The  loudest  song  shall  raise, 
And,  while  eternal  ages  roll, 

Dwell  on  my  Savior's  praise. 


POEMS. 

And  is  there  aught  on  earth  to  hold, 

Or  aught  in  death  to  fear, 
When  scenes  like  these  above  unfold, 

So  rapturous  and  dear  ? 
As  the  beloved  disciple  lay, 

Reclined  on  Jesus'  breast, 
So  would  I  breathe  my  life  away 

For  that  eternal  rest. 
1820. 


CREATION    SUBJECT    TO    VANITY. 
Rom.  viii.  18—25. 

See  how  the  curse,  by  guilty  man  brought  down 
On  his  own  head,  lights  on  creation  too  ! 

All  nature  groans  beneath  her  Maker's  frown, 
And  writhes  in  anguish,  or  complains  in  wo. 

Inanimate  creation  lies  defaced 

Beneath  sin's  cold  and  desolating  blight, 

Which  turned  an  Eden  to  a  sterile  waste, 
To  fields  of  blood  earth's  gardens  of  delight. 

Here  a  vast  desert  meets  the  sultry  skies, 

Where  noxious  weeds  and  prickly  briers  grow ; 

There  barren  rocks  and  precipices  rise, 

And  mountains  clothed  in  everlasting  snow. 


POEMS.  71 

Here  the  tornado  roars  along  the  plain, 

And  nature  reels  before  the  furious  shock  ; 

There  the  dire  tempest  sweeps  the  billowy  main, 
And  shattered  wrecks  bestrew  the  fatal  rock. 

The  taint  of  vanity,  without,  within, 
Has  seized  on  nature's  universal  frame ; 

E'en  yon  bright  sun  lights  man  to  acts  of  sin, 
And  the  sweet  stars  look  down  on  deeds  of  shame. 

Mark  how  earth's  animated  tribes  all  feel 
The  bitter  fruits  of  our  revolt  from  God ; 

Some  flee  the  face  of  man,  or,  fiercer  still, 
With  savage  fury  thirst  for  human  blood. 

See,  others  taught  to  bow  to  man's  command, 
Groan  underneath  the  burden  and  the  thong  ; 

Unwilling  yield  them  to  the  oppressor's  hand, 
The  helpless,  guiltless  instruments  of  wrong. 

The  finny  race,  in  ocean's  depths  that  play, 
Torn  from  their  element,  man's  misery  share  ; 

And  you,  sweet  birds  !  that  wing  your  warbling  way, 
Fall  by  the  gun,  or  perish  by  the  snare. 

Unhappy  creatures  !   shall  ye  never  know 

Deliverance  from  accumulated  ill  ? 
Creation  !   shall  thine  agonizing  throe, 

Age  after  age,  distress  compassion  still? 


72  POEMS. 

O,  no !     Thy  groans  have  reached  Jehovah's  ear — 
O  earth  !  earth  !  earth  !  wet  with  a  Savior's  blood 

The  hour  of  thy  redemption  draweth  near — 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  sons  of  God  ! 
1822. 


SORROW    SANCTIFIED. 

My  spirits  droop  with  illness  now, 
And  yet  I  would  submissive  bow, 

My  heavenly  Father,  to  thy  will ; 
I  would  not  breathe  a  single  thought, 
With  discontent  or  murmur  fraught, 

But,  suffering,  own  and  love  thee  still. 

And  yet  there  is  a  pensive  air 
Steals  o'er  me  ere  I  am  aware, 

And  clasps  me  in  its  soft  control ; 
A  mildly  melancholy  mood, 
Of  sickness  born,  and  solitude, 

Sad  and  subduing  to  the  soul. 

At  times  I  check  the  starting  tear, 
And  think,  my  Father,  thou  art  here, 

And  I  am  thine,  forever  thine ; 
Should  blow  succeed  to  chastening  blow, 
Thou  art  the  very  same,  I  know, 

And  future  blessings  dost  design. 


73 


Whence,  then,  this  sadness  that  I  feel  ? 
Why  do  these  tears  unbidden  steal, 

And  on  my  better  thoughts  intrude  ? 
Still  must  I  weep  ?     Then  vanish,  pride, 
And  let  these  tears  be  sanctified 

By  holy  grief  and  gratitude. 

Breathe,  Holy  Spirit !  on  my  pain, 
And  I  will  weep  o'er  Jesus  slain. 

His  sufferings  for  my  sins  I  see, 
When,  in  that  dreary  period 
Of  insult,  agony,  and  blood, 

He  languished  on  the  fatal  tree. 

He  was  no  sufferer  once  !     As  God, 
He  saw  me  from  his  high  abode, 

Deep  sunk  in  sin,  and  wo,  and  shame ; 
Compassion  kindled  with  the  look, 
For  me  a  servant's  form  he  took, 

And  down  to  earth  to  save  me  came. 

O,  it  might  gush  an  angel's  tear, 
To  see  the  Man  of  Sorrows  dear, 

Rejected  and  despised  by  men 
For  angels  knew  how  rich  before 
He  was  in  bliss,  and  what  he  bore 

To  bring  me  back  to  God  again. 

Melt  then,  my  soul !     'Twas  for  thy  guilt 
Jesus'  atoning  blood  was  spilt ; 

He  could  not  sink  in  suffering  lower. 

7 


74 


O,  if  thou  hast  one  spark  of  love 
To  Him  who  left  his  throne  above, 
Go,  weeping  go,  and  sin  no  more. 
October  15,  1820. 


THE    ROSE    AND    THE    EVERGREEN. 

THE    AUTHOR'S    FIRST    COMPOSITION. 

The  rose  is  but  a  transient  flower, 

That's  scarcely  worth  the  garden's  room; 
When  reared,  it  blooms  but  for  an  hour, 

Though  on  its  stem,  unplucked,  it  bloom. 
Not  so  the  modest  Evergreen  ! — 

Mid  summer's  heats  and  winter's  snows, 
Its  humble  form,  unchanged,  is  seen, 

And  fragrant  as  the  blooming  Rose. 

The  first  is  Beauty.     While  it  lasts, 

It  draws  the  admirer's  dazzled  eyes ; 
But  soon  its  transient  power  is  past — 

It  sinks,  alas,  no  more  to  rise  ! 
But  Virtue,  like  the  Evergreen, 

Though  poverty  may  frown  around, 
And  clouds  may  dim  this  mortal  scene, 

With  immortality  is  crowned. 
May,  1617. 


POEMS.  75 


TO    A    LITTLE    GIRL. 

May  my  young  friend  the  Savior  love, 

In  these  her  early  days ; 
And  may  her  feet  with  pleasure  move 

In  all  God's  holy  ways. 

And  may  this  precious  character, 
When  dead,  of  her  be  given — 

Almina loved  her  Savior  here, 
And  lives  with  him  in  heaven. 


ELEGY 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MRS.    MERCY    SMITH,   WIFE    OF 
DANIEL    SMITH,    ESQ,.,     OF    HA.MILTON,  N.  Y. 

Why  weeps  the  Muse  ? 
Why  droops  her  languid  head  ? 
Why  tremble  thus  the  strings  ? 
Alas  !  she  sings 
The  solemn  requiem  of  the  sainted  dead  ! 
Nor  can  her  plaintive  harp  refuse 
To  speak  of  worth  and  virtue  fled, 
And  the  pale  form  in  which  they  dwelt 
Laid  in  its  narrow  bed. 


76  points. 

The  notes  are  low, 
And  on  the  listening  tar 
Strike  mournfully,  but  clear; 
And,  now,  more  near 
The  gentle  gale  wafts  on  the  symphony, 
In  movements  tremulous  and  slow ; 
The  soul  dissolves  in  sympathy, 
While  down  the  cheek  the  tear  drops  steal, 
Moved  by  the  touch  of  wo. 

For  whom  doth  roll 
The  dirge  by  sorrow  woke  ? 
Affection's  voice  shall  tell 
How  Mercy  fell. 
Yet  while  life  sunk  beneath  death's  awful  stroke, 
The  active  and  immortal  soul 
Felt  with  surprise  her  fetters  broke, 
And,  winged  with  transport,  took  her  flight 
Up  to  her  heavenly  goal. 

Who  has  not  felt, 
Ere  yet  the  coffin  close, 
That  there    is  something  sweet 
In  the  repose 
That  wraps  the  slumberer  in  the  winding  sheet? 
And  though  the  heart  within  may  melt, 
How  sweet  to  apply  the  promise  given, 
That  makes  the  dying  Christian  sure 
Of  happiness  in  heaven  ! 


O,  cease  to  mourn 
That  the  dim,  silent  tomb 
Should  round  her  relics  close  ; 
Soon  shall  its  gloom 
Disperse ;  for,  as  her  glorious  Savior  rose, 
So,  on  the  resurrection  morn, 
Her  dust  shall  wake  to  life  again, 
To  sing  her  great  Redeemer's  praise 
In  one  eternal  strain. 

Sleep  on,  blest  saint ! 
Hushed  in  soft  slumber,  sleep  ! 
Thy  friends,  that  o'er  thee  bend, 
In  silence  weep. 
But  sorrow's  deeper  tone  of  fond  complaint 
Shall  ne'er  disturb  repose  so  deep 
As  that  which  seals  thy  tearless  eye, 
Destined  to  look  no  more  on  aught 
That  dwells  below  the  sky. 

Why  didst  thou  look, 
Mourner,  into  the  grave, 
To  see  her  mouldering  there  ? 
Why  wouldst  thou  crave 
A  melancholy  sight  thou  couldst  not  bear  ? 
Blind  love  !  its  flight  the  spirit  took  ; 
Dream  not  it  dwells  beneath  the  sod, 
For  angels  bore  it  far  away, 
Up  to  the  throne  of  God. 
7* 


78  POEMS. 

In  that  blest  place, 
Where  sin  defiles  no  more, 
Where  sorrow  cannot  come, 
Nor  billows  roar, 
Before  the  glory  of  Jehovah's  face, 
She  makes  her  everlasting  home, 
And  joyful  strikes  her  harp  of  gold, 
And  bids  each  sounding  string  awake 
Her  Savior's  love  t'  unfold. 

Fond  mourner,  see 
Thy  lost  one  living  there  ! 
See  what  new  splendors  now 
Glow  on  her  brow  ! 
A  seraph's  lovely  form  behold  her  wear, 
And  high  her  palm  of  victory  bear  ! — 
But  here  our  weak  conceptions  fail, 
For  glory  flings  around  the  scene 
Her  mortal-dazzling  veil. 
1820. 


THE    BEAUTY    OF    ISRAEL. 

•The  beauty  of  Israel  is  slain  upon  thy  high  places.' — 
2  Sam.  i.  19. 

On  Calvary's  summit  no  dew  let  there  be  ! 

Let  no  shower  from  above  e'er  water  its  plain ! 
For  there  was  the  Savior  exposed  on  the  tree  ; 

There,  there  was  the  Beauty  of  Israel  slain. 


POEMS.  79 

O,  never  again  let  it  verdure  afford ! 

Most  foul  the  transaction,  and  foul  is  the  stain ; 
And  deep  is  it  drenched  in  the  blood  of  the  Lord, 

For  there  was  the  Beauty  of  Israel  slain. 

Ye  daughters  of  Zion,  go  weep  o'er  the  spot, 

Where  he  died  that  he  might  your  salvation  obtain ; 

But  tears  cannot  wash  from  its  summit  the  blot, 
For"  there  was  the  Beauty  of  Israel  slain. 

Ye  outcasts  of  Judah,  who  wander  accursed, 
Behold  your  Messiah  now  looked  for  in  vain ; 

O,  weep  and  bow  lowly  your  heads  in  the  dust, 
For  there  was  the  Beauty  of  Israel  slain. 

And  we  who  have  pierced,  let  us  view  him,  and  mourn 
O'er  the  sins  which  so  cruelly  put  him  to  pain ; 

And  reflect,  as  we  slowly  from  Calvary  turn, 
That  there  was  the  Beauty  of  Israel  slain. 


LOVE. 


O  love,  sweet  love  !  how  wondrous  is  thy  power  ! 

What  welcome  tyranny  !   what  downy  chains  ! 
Thy  silken  net,  though  woven  in  an  hour, 

Ever,  with  soft  necessity,  constrains  ! 
Thou  sweet  controller  of  the  human  heart, 

What  glorious  things,  in  sooth,  are  said  of  thee  ! 
Where'er  thy  vital  influences  dart, 

Spring  peace,  and  joy,  and  grace,  and  dignity. 


80  POEMS. 

Queen  of  affections — of  the  soul  first  born — 

Flower  of  its  youth — beginning  of  its  strength — 
Without  thee,  man  must  linger  on  forlorn, 

And  die  in  hopeless  misery  at  length. 
Essence  of  Deity,  and  fount  of  bliss, 

Immortal  principle  of  every  good  ! 
If  not  too  mean  a  habitation  this, 

O,  make  this  heart  forever  thine  abode  ! 

Come,  and  unite  my  wandering  soul  to  God  ; 

Unfold  before  me  his  perfections  bright; 
Make  me  submissive  to  his  chastening  rod, 

And  let  his  law  be  my  supreme  delight. 
Bind,  bind  my  heart-  unto  his  children  dear, 

Who  bear  his  image,  on  his  name  who  call ; 
And  let  my  Savior  live  and  triumph  here, 

My  Alpha — my  Omega — all  in  all ! 
1620. 


MUSIC. 
A    FRAGMENT. 

How  oft  has  music, — soul-entrancing  art, 
Gift  of  indulgent  heaven,  on  man  bestowed, 

To  breathe  his  gratitude,  and  cheer  his  heart, 
What  time  oppressed  beneath  affliction's  load, 

And  raise  his  spirit  to  the  throne  of  God, — 
Been  prostituted  to  the  vilest  use  ! 


POEMS.  81 

The  Muse  that  erst  with  warm  devotion  glowed, 
Has  been  degraded. — But  that  vile  abuse 
Let  dark  oblivion  shroud,  since  nothing  can  excuse. 
1819. 


HUDSON,    N.  Y. 

This  eastern  slope,  the  sun's  first  ray 
Catches  as,  brightening  into  day, 
Alert  he  holds  his  onward  way, 
Till  the  last  beams  of  light  decay, 

And  shades  creation  blot ; 
Then  the  sweet  moon,  with  lustre  pale, 
Looks  down  upon  yon  dewy  vale  : — 
Here,  winding  on  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Arrived,  my  weary  footsteps  fail 

Upon  this  hallowed  spot. 

The  sun  is  set  behind  the  hill ; 

But  the  floating  clouds  his  lustre  still 

In  shapes  fantastic  hold  at  will, 

And  the  breathing  tones  of  evening  thrill 

The  soul's  most  secret  place  ; 
I  see  grim  Death  stalk  o'er  the  ground, 
But  his  tread  emits  no  earthly  sound, 
And  a  solemn  stillness  broods  around, 
Mysterious,  pensive,  and  profound, 

As  I  his  footsteps  trace. 


82  roF.Ms. 

O,  tell  me  not  that  health  is  strong — 
O,  tell  me  not  that  life  is  long — 
Name  not  to  me  the  dance — the  song — 
When  here,  these  very  graves  among, 

My  bed  must  soon  be  made ; 
And  I,  by  Death's  cold  hand  oppressed, 
Shall  lie  me  down,  a  nameless  guest, 
Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  my  rest, 
And  call  me  forth  to  join  the  Blest, 

Or  sink  in  endless  shade. 
Sept.  1820. 


I 


fenelon's  four  rules  for  preachers. 

CONDENSED    INTO    RHYME. 

Be  master  of  your  subject — prove 
Its  truth — its  circumstances  paint ; 

In  gentle  strokes  the  passions  move — 
And  of  a  sinner  make  a  saint. 


THE    NATIVITY. 

Luke  ii.  8—14. 


It  is  a  lovely  night !     The  waning  moon 
O'er  Gaza  sheds  a  sweet  beam  silently, 

Even  unto  Bethlehem's  dewy  plains,  and  soon 
Will  merge  her  lustre  in  the  silvery  sea. 


POEMS.  Od 

There  is  no  sound  on  earth.  A  quiet  charm 
Is  in  the  heavens — a  soft  and  solemn  spell — 

Lulled  even  is  the  zephyr's  breath  of  balm — 
Creation  slumbers  in  her  star-light  cell. 

The  snowy  flocks,  on  yon  outstretching  field, 
Repose  secure  beneath  their  shepherds'  eyes ; 

Whose  arm  in  peril  is  their  ready  shield, 

Whose  tender  vigil  guards  them  from  surprise. 

Humble  and  unsophisticated  men ! 

Your  heaven-taught  wisdom  shames  the  lettered 
sage; 
In  you,  simplicity  revives  again — 

In  you,  returns  the  patriarchal  age. 

Ye  lowly  ones  !   what  glorious  visions  wait 

Your  eyes  this  night,  to  grandeur's  gaze  denied  ! 

That  greet  not  Herod  in  his  hall  of  state, 
That  mock  Augustus  on  his  throne  of  pride. 

And  there  ye  sit  at  midnight's  solemn  hour  ! — 
Now  sweet  discourse,  now  high  and  sacred  song, 

Is  theirs,  of  Him  enthroned  in  heavenly  power, 
And   Him    their  hope,   promised  and  wished  so 
long. 

What  sudden  splendor  streams  along  the  skies  ! 

What  sun  at  midnight  shoots  his  beams  abroad  ! 
The  startled  shepherds  lift  their  dazzled  eyes — 

!Tis  the  Shechinah  of  the  Lord  their  God ! 


84  POEMS. 

Eternal  .  who  may  see  thy  face,  and  live? 

The  heart  of  man,  e'en  of  the  holiest,  falls, 
Smitten  and  withered  by  thy  glory.     Give 

On  earth  but  glimpses — more,  o'erwhelms,  appals  ! 

And  thus,  awe-struck,  o'erwhelmed,  the  shepherds 
stood 

Before  the  glory  of  the  angel's  form ; 
Terror  swept  o'er  their  spirits  like  a  flood, 

Till  his  culm  voice  allayed  the  inward  storm. 

'Fear  not !' — in  accents  soft  as  falling  dews, 

Thus  speaks  the  bright  ambassador  of  heaven — 

1  Fear  not !  I  come  to  bring  the  joyful  news, 
'  To  you,  to  all  the  earth,  a  Savior's  given. 

'This  very  night  the  Promised  Seed  is  born! 

'  On  the  deep  darkness  in  which  earth  is  furled, 
'  Rises  the  Dajr-star  of  a  glorious  morn, 

The  great  Restorer  of  a  ruined  world  ! 

'  Bethlehem  Ephratah  !   humble  though  thou  be, 
'  Mid  Judah's  thousands,  rise,  exulting  rise  ! 

'  Messiah  claims  his  mortal  birth  from  thee, 

'  Whose  goings  forth  of  old  built  earth  and  skies  ! 

'  Go,  seek  the  Heir  of  David's  royal  line  ! 

'  Go,  see  the  lowly  birthplace  of  your  King  ! 
'  Start  not — a  manger  holds  the  Babe  divine, 

'  Whose  birth  the  seraph  choirs  descend  to  sing. 


POEMS.  85 

1  What  though  ye  find  him  in  such  mean  array — 
4  Born  of  a  woman — cradled  in  the  stall — 

'  His  Godhead  vested  in  a  form  of  clay, 

'To  bear  Man's  sorrows — He  is  Lord  of  all!' 

Ceased  is  the  seraph  voice.     But,  clear  and  strong, 
In  the  still  air  a  strain  of  music  wakes ; 

And  on  the  shepherds'  ear  the  choral  song 

Of  heaven's  exulting  hosts,  descending,  breaks  : — 

*  Glory  to  God  most  high  !  in  realms  above, 
'  Worlds  of  eternal  light  by  seraphs  trod, 

'Peace  on  the  earth — to  man  transcendent  love — 
'Through  God's  incarnate  Son.     Glory  to  God!' 
1822. 


THE    HERALD    OF    THE    LORD. 
A    BIBLICAL    SKETCH. 

Where  Jordan  rolls  his  crystal  wave, 
Through  yellow  sands  of  Palestine, 

In  attire  rude,  in  aspect  grave, 

A  herald  comes  with  powers  divine, 

And  publishes  the  warning  word, 

Prepare  the  pathway  of  the  Lord . 

The  reign  of  God  is  drawing  nigh, 
The  morning  star  in  glory  shines, 


86  POEMS. 

Behold  the  accomplished  prophecy, 

Repent,  confess,  renounce  your  sins; 
Let  all  things  be  with  speed  restored — 
Prepare  the  pathway  of  the  Lord! 

Ho  comes  !   He  comes  !  by  seers  foretold, 
The  great  Messiah  comes  to  earth ; 

Sublimest  miracles  unfold 

The  glories  of  his  heavenly  birth. 

O,  be  Messiah's  name  adored — 

Prepare  the  pathway  of  the  Lord! 

Vain  now  is  the  deceiver's  art — 

Sinner,  thy  hopes  of  heaven  are  vain ; 

Messiah's  eye  will  pierce  the  heart, 
And  cleave  the  guilty  soul  in  twain. 

Flee  from  his  wrath — his  grace  implored — 

Prepare  the  pathway  of  the  Lord! 

Mourner,  whose  heart  with  sorrow  breaks, 
Bathed  in  contrition's  bitter  tears, 

Behold  the  Lamb  of  God,  who  takes 
Away  thy  foulest  sins,  appears. 

Baptized  into  his  name — restored — 

Prepare  the  pathway  of  the  Lord! 
1821. 


POEMS.  87 


KINDRED    PARTING. 

Kindred  beloved  !  to  us  from  far, 

Ye  did  of  late  in  friendship  come, 
Our  hospitalities  to  share, 

And  find  a  momentary  home. 
And  ye  have  found  it,  and  our  heart 

Would  fondly  wish  your  longer  stay 
But,  ah,  in  vain  !  and  now  we  part 

Until  the  solemn  judgment  day. 

Kindred  beloved  !   it  must  be  so — 

Your  transient  visit  now  is  o'er ; 
Far,  far  to  other  scenes  ye  go, 

And  we  shall  see  your  face  no  more  : 
We  who  so  often  have  communed, 

In  other  scenes  and  earlier  days, 
Of  things  divine,  with  voices  tuned 

In  the  rich  melody  of  praise. 

Together  we  have  mingled  thought 

Of  Him,  our  dying,  rising  Lord ; 
Together  we  his  house  have  sought, 

And  listened  to  his  holy  word 
Together  we  have  bowed  the  knee, 

Adoring  at  his  glorious  throne  ; 
And  felt  the  heart's  deep  sympathy, 

Sweetly  uniting  us  in  one. 


88  POEMS. 

The  days  were  sweet,  and  swift  they  passed, 

As  glides  a  pleasant  dream  away  ; 
And  sadly  we  awrake  at  last, 

And  find  you  can  no  longer  stay. 
As  though  on  life's  dread  verge  we  stand — 

As  though  we  heard  the  dying  knell — 
Kindred  !   this  once  we  press  your  hand, 

And  softly  breathe — Farewell,  farewell ! 

The  tender  scenes  of  yesternight 

Are  rising  brightly  on  our  view ; 
And  long  as  Memory  sheds  her  light, 

Those  moments  Fancy  will  renew  ; 
Again  in  fond  remembrance  see, 

Around  the  bed  where  sickness  lies, 
The  intermingling  family, 

And  listen  to  their  broken  sighs. 

Kindred  !  ye  seek  a  country  far — 

And  ask  ye  us  for  you  to  pray  ? 
May  Jesus  be  your  guiding  star, 

To  light  you  on  your  lonely  wray  ! 
And,  now,  farewell.     O,  may  our  prayer, 

Father  in  heaven  !  not  rise  in  vain  ; 
But  may  we  meet  together  there, 

And  never,  never  part  again  ! 
Jan.  14,  1823. 


POEMS.  89 

THE    HAPPY    BOY. 

Yes,  dearest  father,  I  must  die, 

And  bid  you  now  farewell ; 
A  mist  is  gathering  o'er  my  eye — 

Your  face  I  cannot  tell ! 
Mother,  dear  mother  !  do  not  weep, 

Behold  your  happy  boy  ! 
Jesus  my  soul  will  safely  keep, 

And  I  can  die  with  joy. 

Farewell,  young  friends  !   I  hold  you  dear  j 

It  is  my  Savior's  call ; 
You've  been  my  loved  companions  here, 

But  I  must  leave  you  all. 
Serve  God  !  and  in  yon  heavenly  land 

We  shall  our  Savior  view ; 
No  more  to  take  the  parting  hand, 

Or  sigh  a  last  adieu. 
1819. 


HINTS    TO    A    YOUNG    PREACHER. 

Your  air  is  too  dogmatic  ; 
Your  tones  are  too  emphatic ; 
Your  style  has  too  much  splendor ; 
Your  voice  has  nothing  tender; 
Your  gestures  are  too  frequent  far, 
And  quite  ungraceful  many  are. 
1822. 
8* 


90  POEMS. 

lowth's  epitaph  o 

WHO    DIED    AT    THE     AGE     OF     THIRTEEN. 

Original  Latin. 

Cara,  vale,  ingenio,  praestans,  pietate,  pudore, 
Et  plusquam  natae,  nomine  cara,  vale. 
Cara  Maria,  vale.     At  veniet  felicitius  sevum 
Quandum  iterum  tecum,  sum  modo  dignum,  ero. 
Cara,  redi,  lasta  turn  dicam  voce  paternus, 
Eja,  age  in  amplexus,  cara  Maria,  redi. 

1.     LITERAL   translation. 
In  English  elegiac  measure. 

Dear  one,  adieu.     In  genius,  piety, 

And  bashful  sweetness,  how  didst  thou  excel ' 

And  by  a  daughter's  name  endeared  to  me, 
Adieu,  dear  Mary  !  cherished  one,  farewell ! 

But  in  that  world  where  death  no  more  alarms, 
With  thee,  if  worthy,  I  shall  meet  again ; 

And  say,  Sweet  child,  come  to  thy  father's  arms ! 
Ah,  here,  dear  Mary,  evermore  remain ! 
1822. 

2.      FREE    TRANSLATION. 

Adieu,  my  love  !    a  sad  adieu, 

Thy  weeping  father  bids  to  thee  ; — 

Thy  life's  sweet  bud,  and  early  dew, 
Of  genius  and  of  piety, — 


POEMS.  91 

The  timid  sweetness  of  thy  look, 
Thy  heart  so  innocent  and  kind — 

Though  I  can  scarce  the  vision  brook — 
Still  glow  upon  my  anguished  mind. 

Child  of  my  heart — my  Mary  dear  ! 

On  thee  thy  father's  thoughts  will  dwell; 
But  thou  hast  found  a  purer  sphere, 

And  while  I  bid  a  sad  farewell, 
A  happier  time,  I  trust,  will  come, 

When  I — if  worthy  I  may  be — 
Shall  rise  to  thy  celestial  home, 

And  meet  again,  my  love,  with  thee  ! 

There,  gazing  on  thy  filial  charms, 

Which  death  shall  never  more  deface ; 
Free  from  the  weak  yet  fond  alarms, 

Which  here  embitter  earth's  embrace ; 
With  all  a  father's  voice  of  love, 

And  joy  unknown,  unfelt  before, 
I'll  say,  Return,  my  gentle  dove, 

And  from  my  arms  depart  no  more  ! 


Farewell,  my  love  !  dear,  dear  thou  wert  to  me, 
Each  charming  virtue  was,  my  child,  thine  own  ; 

In  genius,  modesty,  and  piety, 

Who  ever  like  my  lovely  Mary  shone  ? 


92  POEMS. 

Long,  long,  my  tears,  my  bitter  tears,  will  flow — 
In  youth's  sweet  bloom  my  lovely  daughter  fell 

With  trembling  voice,  and  heart  dissolved  in  wo, 
Farewell,  I  cry,  my  Mary,  O  farewell ! 

And  yet,  I  trust,  a  happier  time  will  come, 
When  I,  if  worthy  of  that  bliss,  shall  rise, 

Again  to  meet  thee  in  a  heavenly  home, 

Where  tears  are  banished  from  immortal  eyes. 

There,  with  a  voice  of  fond,  paternal  grace, 
I'll  say  to  her  whom  here  I  so  deplore, 

Come,  my  dear  Mary,  to  my  warm  embrace — 
Return,  return,  and  we  will  part  no  more  ! 


ANNIE, 

DAUGHTER  OF  PROF.  FARISH,  OF  CAMBRIDGE,  ENG 

She  died,  July  31, 1821,  in  her  fifteenth  year. — See  the  Christian 
Observer,  of  September,  in  that  year,  where  the  particulars 
are  given,  on  which  the  following  lines  are  founded. 

Dim  burned  the  midnight  taper  in  the  room, 
Where  beauteous  Annie  on  her  couch  reclined ; 

And  round  it  hung  that  melancholy  gloom, 

Which  soothes,  yet  awes,  the  sympathizing  mind. 

That  child  of  sweet  simplicity  and  truth, 
The  cherished  object  of  parental  love  ; 


POEMS.  93 

While  yet  all  glowing  with  the  charms  of  youth, 
By  death  is  summoned  to  the  world  ahove. 

Long  did  she  languish  on  her  couch  of  pain, — 
For  slowly  oft  death's  ministers  destroy ; 

Yet  Faith  assured  her  every  pang  was  gain, 

Hope  charmed  her  soul  with  more  than  mortal  joy. 

'Tis  her  last  hour.     She  whispers  those  around, 
1  Haste,  haste,  and  call  my  honored  father  here  ; 

Sweet  will  his  voice  in  supplication  sound, 
Once  more,  in  his  own  dying  daughter's  ear  !' 

He  came — and  could  he  then  his  grief  control  ? 

Ah,  no,  unless  his  heart  to  grief  were  steeled  : 
With  all  the  yearnings  of  a  father's  soul, 

He  stood,and  gazed,  and  wept,and  humbly  kneeled. 

She  heard  with  rapt  devotion ; — when  he  rose, 
1  Now  Call  my  mother  to  her  suffering  child ; 

Let  her  behold  my  life's  triumphant  close, 

And  bless  the  grace  that  every  pang  beguiled.' 

Then  rose  in  tones  of  joy  her  dying  breath, 
The  voice  of  triumph  trembled  on  her  tongue  : 

'My  Savior  won  this  victory  over  death, 
When  on  the  cross  of  agony  He  hung. 

'  For  me  He  died — yet  not  for  me  alone — 

For  the  whole  world  my  great  Redeemer  bled ; 

Through  all  the  earth,  O  be  his  glory  known, 
To  every  land,  O  let  his  name  be  spread  !' 


94  roEMs. 

Clasped  were  her  hands,  her  eyes  uplift  to  heaven  ; 
4  Thank  God!    my  God!  my  Christ!"   she  softly 
cried ; 
Then  bright  and  calm  as  close  of  summer  even, 
She  bade  «  Good  bye  !'  and  bowed  her  head,  and 
died. 


ACROSTIC, 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  OF  GREAT  EXCEL- 
LENCE AND  BEAUTY,  BUT  IN  VERY  FEEBLE  HEALTH 
AT  THE  TIME. 

B  right  as  the  radiant  beams  of  morn, 

E  nlightening  all  the  eastern  sky, 

U  nited  virtues  thee  adorn, 

L  ove,  tempered  by  Humility  ; 

A  nd  Faith  and  Hope,  celestial-born, 

Hallow  thy  heart,  and  light  thine  eye. 

B  eloved  by  all  who  know  thy  worth, 
Untouched  by  Slander's  slightest  stain, 
C  alumny  sinks  abashed  to  earth, 
Kindled  are  Envy's  fires  in  vain 

I  n  gazing  on  thy  gentle  mein — 
Nay,  frown  not,  if  my  fancy  warm — 
Grace,  with  such  dignity  serene, 
H  overs  around  thy  fragile  form  ; 
A  lovely  rainbow  thou  art  seen, 
Made  brilliant  by  the  passing  storm  ! 
J\'ov.  7,  1828 


POEMS.  95 


THE    GOODNESS    OF    GOD. 

And  wilt  thou  stoop,  great  God  !  so  low, 
As  to  behold  with  pitying  eye, 

Thy  guilty  creatures  here  below, 
Condemned  eternally  to  die  ? 

Why  do  I  ask  in  doubtful  tone, 
When,  lo  !  upon  the  cross  I  see 

Immanuel  bleed,  from  love  alone, 
From  pity  to  a  wretch  like  me  ! 

God  in  our  nature,  wondrous  sight ! 

Endures  the  curse  for  man  designed ; 
O,  with  what  ravishing  delight 

A  scene  so  awful  fills  my  mind  ! 

God  of  immensity  !  thy  love 

Exceeds  the  grandeur  of  thy  power ! 

Strike,  strike  your  harps,  ye  hosts  above, 
While  saints  in  sweeter  strains  adore. 
1820. 


THE    GREATNESS    OF    GOD. 

O  Thou  !  the  high  and  lofty  One, 
Whose  dwelling  is  eternity  ; 

Justice  and  judgment  guard  thy  throne, 
And  prostrate  angels  worship  thee. 


96  POEMS. 

Dark  and  unsearchable  thy  ways, 
To  man  mysterious  and  obscure  ! 

Beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  gaze, 
The  feeblest  workings  of  thy  power. 

E'en  in  thine  acts  of  Providence, 
"Which  our  unceasing  wants  supply, 

Thy  hand,  stretched  out  for  our  defence, 
Is  still  concealed  from  mortal  eye. 

In  vain  we  stretch  our  sight  to  scan 
The  mysteries  of  thy  chastening  rod  ; 

Awed  by  that  voice  which  says  to  man, 
1  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God  !' 
1820. 


YOUTHFUL    FRIENDSHIP. 
ADDRESSED    TO    MR.    E B 

O!  Friendship  has  a  magic  power,  when  formed 
in  early  youth, 

And  growing  still,  through  sun  and  shower,  in  ten- 
derness and  truth ; 

A  letter  from  the  well-known  hand,  we  need  not  see 
the  name, 

But  feel  as  an  enchanter's  hand  had  touched  and 
thrilled  our  frame  ' 


POEMS.  97 

What  trains  of  early  feelings  wake,  and  recollec- 
tions dear, 

And  youthful  voices  to  us  speak,  familiar  to  our  ear  ! 

The  years  by-gone,  and  fled  afar,  again  return  to  view, 

When  o'er  our  life  Hope's  morning  star  its  tender 
lustre  threw. 

The  friends  we  knew,  the  scenes  we  loved,  come 
rushing  o'er  our  thought, 

Aye,  all  that  melted,  all  that  moved,  and  could  not 
be  forgot ! 

And  happy  they  to  whom  the  past  restores  no  hours 
ill  spent, 

Most  happy  where  Religion  cast  her  heavenly  ele- 
ment ! 

So  let  us  live  that  oft  as  comes  the  voice  that  wakes 

the  soul, 
Till  all  its  youthful  haunts  and  homes  again  before 

it  roll ; 
The  memory  of  the  past  may  be  as  precious  odors 

given, 
That  steep  the  sense  in  ecstasy,  and  waft  the  soul 

to  heaven  ! 

May,  1823. 


98  POEMS. 


THE    CONSUMPTIVE. 

LINES     SUPPOSED     TO     BE    WRITTEN    BY    MISS    MARY 
BECKWITH,    OF    HAMILTON,    N.  Y. 

Now  brood  my  thoughts  o'er  melancholy  things, 
And  all  around  me  wears  a  pensive  gloom ; 

Sad  is  my  soul,  and  sorrowful  she  sings 

The  painful  prospects  that  surround  the  tomb. 

Few  are  the  days  whose  rapid  flight  has  sped, 

Since  blooming  health  and  vigor  flushed  my  cheek; 

Soft  visions  of  delight  were  round  me  spread, 
And  plighted  love  in  tender  tones  did  speak. 

Ah,  why  such  folly  as  to  boast  of  health, 

And  fondly  form  fair  plans  of  pleasure  here  ! 

Ah,  what  avail  the  glittering  stores  of  wealth 
To  stay  the  stroke  of  Deaths  uplifted  spear  ! 

When  late  I  moved  with  life's  elastic  tone, 

And  gaily  dreamed  of  many  a  year  in  store, 
Who  could  have  thought  the  seeds  of  death  were 
sown  ? 
Who  could  have  dreamed  that  Death  was  at  the 
door  ? 

Scarce  can  I  now  believe  myself  the  same ; — 
These  languid  pulses,  this  laborious  breath, 

Tell  me  that  on  the  vitals  of  my  frame 

Consumption  preys,  sure  messenger  of  Death ! 


.., 


toems.  99 

Oft,  when  the  burning  hectic  fires  mine  eye, 
Some  poor  remains  of  former  strength  I  feel ; 

Again  the  pulses  of  my  heart  beat  high, 
Again  Hope's  visions  o'er  my  fancy  steal. 

Delusive  strength  !    too  soon  it  ebbs  away  ; 

Delusive  hopes  !  how  soon  ye  disappear  ! 
Yet  faster  still  the  springs  of  life  decay ; 

Fails  all  that  rendered  life  before  so  dear  ! 

Look  here,  ye  heedless  !  that  talk  light  of  death, 
And  seldom  think  that  you  yourselves  must  die ; 

Ye  thoughtless  ones  !  that  trifle  out  your  breath, 
In  chace  of  happiness  below  the  sky. 

Look  seriously  upon  this  faded  cheek — 
It  is  a  friend,  a  suffering  friend,  adjures  ! 

In  faltering  tones  she  would  her  warning  speak — 
That  cheek  was  once,  perchance,  as  fair  as  yours  ! 

And  this  dim  eye — its  sparkling  lustre  fled — 
Which  now  a  pitying  glance  upon  you  turns, 

Once  it  shot  beams  as  bright  as  yours  now  shed — 
No  more  it  sparkles,  and  no  more  it  burns ! 

No  more  these  lips  glow  with  vermilion  dies, 

As  once  when  life,  and  love,  and  hope,  were  dear ; 

Now  the  pale  portals  of  th'  unbidden  sighs, 
That  faintly  fall  upon  your  listening  ear ! 

Look  at  these  hands,  that  scarcely  now  retain 
Aught  of  the  vigor  of  the  vital  tide ; — 


100  POEMS. 

Nor  let  the  serious  consciousness  be  vain, 

How  frail  is  health,  how  brief  is  beauty's  pride  ! 

Mark  this  pale  forehead,  wet  with  death's  cold  dews  ; 

This  frame  convulsed  with  many  a  painful  throe  ; 
Nor  from  a  dying  friend  this  prayer  refuse ; 

Prepare,  ere  Death  shall  strike  the  final  blow  ! 

Swift  and  more  swift  ebbs  out  the  tide  of  life; 

The  mortal  hour  to  me  draws  near  apace ; 
A  few  short  struggles  more  will  end  the  strife, 

And  I  sink  breathless  in  death's  cold  embrace. 

Tired  of  the  day,  I  wish  that  eve  may  come, 
And  gently  screen  me  from  the  glare  of  light; 

For  then  my  weary  eyes  might  cease  to  roam, 
Closed  in  the  slumbers  of  the  peaceful  night. 

Evening  at  length  with  tardy  pace  arrives, 

And  earth  grows  still  beneath  her  solemn  reign ; 

But  vainly  still  my  restless  nature  strives 
To  find  some  respite  from  perpetual  pain. 

Harsh-racking  coughs  assault  my  trembling  frame, 
And  snatch  the  poor  remains  of  strength  awav  ; 

Nor  can  one  hour  its  brief  exemption  claim 
From  the  slow  torture  of  this  sure  decay ! 

Soon  yon  bright  sun  these  eyes  shall  cease  to  view, 
All  that  was  dear  to  me  shall  be  no  more ; 

Earth  o'er  these  limbs  decayed  her  dust  shall  strew, 
And  the  delusive  dream  of  life  be  o'er. 


POEMS.  101 

O,  did  no  hope  support  my  sinking  breast, 

Drawn  from  a  world  more  bright  beyond  compare; 

Might  I  not  on  my  Savior's  promise  rest, 
Long  since  my  soul  had  sunk  into  despair. 

But,  O,  what  cause  for  thankfulness  have  I ! 

E'en  in  the  hour  when  keenest  anguish  wrung, 
My  gracious  Savior  to  my  soul  was  nigh, 

And  poured  sweet    comfort    from    his  heavenly 
tongue. 

Yes,  well  I  know  in  whom  I  did  believe  : 
Know  He  is  able  to  secure  my  trust ; 

My  parting  spirit  He  will  soon  receive, 
And  in  due  time  reanimate  my  dust. 

Then  shall  I  see,  with  overpowering  charms, 
The  face  of  Him  whom  here  unseen  I  love ; 

There  fall  transported  in  his  circling  arms, 
Nor  wish,  nor  more  attempt,  again  to  rove  ! 

While  such  sweet  hopes  attend  the  dying  hour, 

While  such  a  glory  gilds  the  solemn  scene, 
I  rise  superior  to  Consumption's  power, 
And  wait  my  exit  with  a  soul  serene. 
May  1,  1820. 
9* 


102  POEMS. 


ON    VIEWING    A    SKELETON. 

O,  hcmbling  sight,  and  yet  instructive  too! — 

Thou  fleshless  frame  of  dead  humanity  ! 

Humanity,  the  crown  of  all  below — 

God's  handiwork — Creation's  masterpiece  ! 

And  are  these,  then,  the  sole,  the  sad  remains 

Of  what  was  once  the  sacred  tenement 

Of  conscious  life — the  dwelling  of  the  soul ! 

Yes  !  these  dry  bones  were  once  with  sinews  strung, 

And  the  soft  flesh,  and  smooth,  transparent  skin, 

Clothed  and  adorned  them,  while  the  crimson  tide 

Of  life  ran  warm  through  artery  and  vein ; 

And  quick  sensation  thrilled  through  every  nerve, 

And  living  tissue  of  the  breathing  frame, 

So  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made  ! 

Perhaps  this  form  was  of  the  fairest  mould, 

Graceful  in  motion,  exquisite  in  tint, 

And  crowned  with  the  expression  of  a  mind 

Beyond  the  common  mass.     What  now  remains 

Of  all  its  former  beauty  ?    Of  the  eye, 

That  shed  its  radiance  o'er  the  pleasing  form, 

Nothing  is  here  but  yonder  hollow  socket — 

Features,  expression,  all  that  charmed,  is  fled  ! 

The  very  form  itself  resolved  to  dust, 

Which  once  the  gaze  of  admiration  drew, 

And  felt  love's  thrilling  pressure  and  embrace  ! 

And  yet  this  hideous  mass  of  bones  unshapely, 


POEMS.  103 

Which  strikes  an  awe  and  dullness  thro  my  frame, 
Tells  what  it  was — and  what  I,  too,  must  be  ! 

Say,  then,  m}^  soul,  what  are  the  fleeting  joys 

This  world  can  yield,  if  all  must  come  to  this  ? 

What  are  its  gains  and  glories  of  an  hour, 

But  shadowy  dreams  of  fancied  happiness, 

From  which  we  only  wake  to  want  and  wo  ? 

And  what  the  moral  of  this  spectacle, 

Taught  and  impressed  with  dread  solemnity, 

Through  every  sense,  upon  the  inmost  soul, 

But  this,  so  oft  enforced  in  Holy  Writ : — 

'  Man  !  dying  Man  !  place  not  thy  hope  on  earth, 

'  But  put  thy  trust  in  God,  and  look  above  ! — 

•  Since  Death  will  soon,  remorseless,  seize  thy  frame, 

1  And  lay  thy  soul's  frail  sanctuary  in  dust, 

1  What  is  thy  hope,  unless  a  house  be  thine, 

1  Made  without  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens  ?' — 

I  have  a  soul,  and  that  I  know  full  well, 
Which  must  exist  when  time  shall  be  no  more  ; 
And  once  these  bones  enclosed  a  soul  like  mine. 
Where  is  that  spirit  now  ?     He  only  knows, 
Who  sits  enthroned  above.     Suffice  to  say, 
It  must  appear  before  the  bar  of  God, 
And  I  must  meet  it  there  ! — These  very  bones, 
In  that  dread  day,  though  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  scattered  wide  on  all  the  winds  of  heaven, 
Shall  hear  the  trump  of  God,  and  gather  there, 
B-eorganized,  to  meet  the  judgment  doom, 
Of  life  eternal,  or  eternal  death. 


104  POEMS. 

Vain  is  the  sceptics  doubt,  the  atheist's  scorn ; — 
Fool !  is  it  then  with  thee  incredible, 
That  God  should  raise  the  dead  ?     It  should  not  be, 
To  him  who  knows,  beyond  a  lingering  doubt, 
The  certain  miracle — God  at  first  gave  life  ! — 
I  trust  the  power  that  gave  it,  to  restore, 
And  in  that  trust  I  triumph  o'er  the  grave. 
Loud  o'er  the  call  of  appetite  and  lust, 
And  through  the  busy  stir  and  smoke  of  earth, 
I  hear  the  clangor  of  the  archangel's  trump, 
And  see,  far  off,  the  Savior's  coming  shine. 

Amazing  scene  ! — Art  thou  prepared,  my  soul, 
To  stand  before  the  presence  of  thy  Judge, 
Before  the  glory  of  whose  countenance, 
This  earth,  these  heavens,  shall  flee  ?    Bethink  thee 

well. 
When  reimbodied,  reinvested,  there, 
The  stream  of  an  immortal  life  shall  rush 
Through  every  keen,  quick  sense,  and  the  whole  train 
And  compass  of  thy  mortal  history, 
Shall  in  one  glance  roll  back  upon  thy  thought 
And  the  dark  riddle  of  thy  character, 
In  that  new  light  be  read,  and  all  resolved ; 
Not  now  as  in  thy  private  consciousness, 
But  in  the  assembly  of  the  universe, — 
The  quick  and  dead,  thy  friends,  thine  enemies, 
And  the  pure  spirits  that  surround  the  throne  ; 
And  every  sin  is  on  thee  charged  afresh, 
In  all  its  height,  and  depth,  and  breadth,  and  length, 


POEMS.  105 

And  shade,  and  hue,  of  fearful  aggravation, 
Within  the  range  of  God's  eternal  law — 
And  every  eye  is  fixed  on  thee — each  ear 
Waits  in  dread  wonder — what  wilt  thou  reply  ? 

Canst  thou  there  plead,  Not  guilty  ?    Thou  canst  not, 
For  thou  art  guilty,  and  thy  Judge  is  just, 
And  sentence  can  no  longer  be  delayed. — 
When  sink  the  wicked  to  eternal  fire, 
One  plea  alone  arrests  the  stroke  of  doom 
From  falling  on  thy  head  '  the  Savior  died, 
And  I  confided  in  Him,  and  his  Spirit 
Became  my  pledge  of  pardon,  peace,  and  heaven. 
Thy  Book  of  Life  records  my  humble  name  ; 
And  can  the  Judge  who  justified,  condemn  ? ' 
August  16,  1819. 


MRS.    FRY    AT    NEWGATE. 

:  Jailer  !  must  I  entreat  in  vain — 
Can  I  not,  then,  admittance  gain  ? 
And  must  these  hapless  females  be 
Forever  doomed  to  misery  ? 
Must  the  same  laws  that  placed  them  here, 
Add  to  the  penalty  severe — 
The  fruit,  I  grant,  of  shameful  crime — 
By  holding  back  those  truths  sublime, 


106  POEMS. 

Unfolded  in  the  word  of  God, 
And  meet  to  cheer  their  dark  abode — 
Tidings  of  peace  to  sinners  given, 
Of  hope  on  earth  and  bliss  in  heaven  ?' 

Moved  was  the  jailer  to  the  soul ; 
Through  his  stern  breast  new  feelings  roll 
For  never,  since  he  kept  the  door, 
Had  accents,  sweet  as  these,  before 
From  human  lips  so  strongly  plead 
Through  that  dark  prison  to  be  led, 
As  hers  who  now  before  him  stood, 
With  sparkling  eye  and  earnest  mood, 
Begging  admittance  to  the  cell 
Where  the  unhappy  females  dwell. 

Pausing  awhile,  he  shook  his  head — 
'Think  not, 'at  length  he  mildly  said, 
'Fair  stranger,  that  the  laws  exclude 
Hope  from  this  dreary  solitude, 
Or  lock  the  door  against  the  plea 
Of  Christian-like  philanthropy  : 
The  laws  forbid  not,  nor  do  I. — 
Yet,  stranger,  still  forbear  to  try  ; 
Others  have  made  the  attempt  before, 
To  win  these  wretched  females  o'er 
To  Virtue's  long-abandoned  ways. 
The  attempt,  at  least,  demands  our  praise- 
But  all  in  vain  !     The  truths  they  taught 
Were  counted  as  a  thin?  of  naught. 


POEMS.  107 

I  could  not  bear  that  insult  rude 
Should  wound  thy  heart's  solicitude 
Better  the  effort  were  forborne, 
Repaid  by  ribaldry  and  scorn.' 

'It  matters  not, 'the  stranger  said, 
'How  others  failed,  how  others  sped ; 
To  each  God  makes  his  duty  known, 
Each  must  account  to  God  alone. 
The  Gospel  bids  us  love  and  try — 
Love  hopeth  all  things — so  do  I. 
The  trial,  then,  at  least,  be  mine ; 
Success  is  from  a  power  divine.' 

The  bolts  roll  back ;  the  iron  bar 
Falls  down  with  harsh  and  ponderous  jar  ; 
The  door  unfolds ;    she  enters  there, 
Mid  guilt,  and  fury,  and  despair ! 
Yet  still  her  accents  are  as  mild, 
As  mother's  to  a  suffering  child  ; 
While  inly  breathes  her  silent  love 
For  strength  and  blessing  from  above, 
To  pour  the  Gospel's  heavenly  light 
On  the  deep  shades  of  sin  and  night, 
And  cheer  the  Bridewell's  guilt  and  gloom 
With  hopes  that  reach  beyond  the  tomb. 

Now  let  Philosophy,  the  while, 

Look  on  this  scene  with  scornful  smile, 

And  ask  what  new  and  magic  wand 


108  POEMS. 

Of  power  she  bears  within  her  hand, 

To  raise  to  moral  hopes  sublime 

These  most  profound  adepts  in  crime ; 

To  melt  to  penitence  the  heart 

Hardened  by  each  deceitful  art, 

And  practised  deep  in  every  wile 

Which  can  the  human  breast  beguile ; 

To  bid  the  streams  of  sorrow  flow 

For  sin,  and  not  for  following  wo ; 

And  lead  their  thoughts,  through  sins  forgiven, 

To  pant  for  holiness  and  heaven. 

Hence,  false  Philosophy  !  retreat, 
Thy  sage  predictions  of  defeat, 
Boldly,  yet  meekly,  we  defy — 
Experience  gives  them  all  the  lie  ! — 
She  bears  a  wand,  like  Moses'  rod, 
Charmed  with  the  mighty  power  of  God — 
The  Bible!— 

Scorner,  while  she  reads, 
The  heart,  long  callous,  melts  and  bleeds ; 
Tears  flow,  and  penitence  succeeds. 

That  humble  love — that  holy  book — 
Have  pierced  and  changed  the  vilest  nook ; 
And  Christian  virtues  bloom  and  dwell 
In  Newgate's  most  abandoned  cell. 
1822. 


POEMS.  109 


THE    CHRISTIAN    MISSIONARY. 

An  imitation  of  Isaiah  xxxv. 

The  desert  and  the  wilderness 
Shall  brighten  where  he  goes 

The  solitary  place  rejoice, 
And  blossom  like  the  rose. 

And  Lebanon  his  pride  shall  yield, 

And  Carmel  grace  afford ; 
And  every  waiting  soul  shall  see 

The  glory  of  the  Lord. 

The  feeble  knee,  the  trembling  hand, 
The  fearful  heart,  grow  strong ; 

For  God  will  surely  visit  them — 
Their  God  expected  long. 

His  love  shall  ope  the  blinded  eye, 
To  deafness  sounds  impart ; 

The  dumb  with  grateful  joy  shall  sing, 
The  lame  leap  as  the  hart. 

The  gush  of  waters  then  shall  cheer 

The  desert's  lonely  waste  ; 
From  glowing  sands  to  dimpling  pools, 

The  parched  traveller  haste. 

A  glorious  highway  shall  be  there, 
The  way  of  holiness ; 
10 


110 


And  foot  unclean  shall  not  be  teen 
That  hallowed  path  to  press. 

For  those  alone  that  path  is  made 
Who  burst  the  toils  of  sin  ; 

And  the  way-faring  men,  though  fools, 
Shall  never  err  therein. 

No  lion  shall  go  up  thereon, 
Nor  ravenous  beast  of  prey  ; 

But  the  redeemed  of  the  Lord 
Shall  walk  that  pleasant  way. 

His  ransomed  ones  shall  all  return, 

And  Zion's  glory  see  ; 
Eternal  joys  shall  crown  their  heads, 

And  sorrow's  sighing  flee. 
1820. 


ON    THE 

DEATH    OF    REV.    EDWARD    W.    WHEELOCK, 

AMERICAN    MISSIONARY    TO    BL'RMAII. 

Is  Wheelock  dead?     Then  give  a  loose  to  wo, 
Let  tender  sorrows  in  abundance  flow  ! 
Lamented  youth  !  scarce  was  thy  course  begun, 
Ere  our  pain'd  eyes  beheld  thy  setting  sun ; 
And  the  sad  tidings  shed  a  mournful  gloom, 
That  Wheelock  slumbers  in  the  silent  tomb. 


POEMS.  Ill 

Was  it  for  this,  thine  early  hopes  were  formed — 
That  Jesus'  love  thy  generous  bosom  warmed? 
Was  it  for  this,  in  enterprise  sublime, 
Thine  eager  footsteps  sought  an  Indian  clime — 
Forsaking  country,  kindred,  friends,  and  home, 
O'er  stormy  seas  and  foreign  shores  to  roam  ;* 
Tempestuous  deeps  and  raging  whirlwinds  brave — 
To  find  at  length  a  tomb  in  ocean's  stormy  wave  ! 

And,  thou,  fair  partner  of  his  joy  and  care  ! 
Was  it  for  this  thou  didst  so  early  wear 
The  nuptial  tie,  by  love  to  souls  inspired  ? 
Was  it  for  this  thy  gentle  soul  was  fired, 
With  thy  loved  consort,  Jesus'  name  to  spread  ? — 
A  widow  now,  to  mourn  thy  fond  companion  dead  ! 
Alas  !  how  dark  the  scene  ! — Religion,  weep  ! 
Thy  hopes,  with  ours,  are  buried  in  the  deep ! 

But  cease  these  murmurings  !     Can  such  thoughts 

as  these, 
Flow  from  a  heart  that  bows  to  God's  decrees  ? 

*  In  his  letter  to  the  Board  of  Missions,  April,  1817,  Mr. 
Wheelock  writes  thus  : — "  I  had  rather  be  a  Missionary  of  the 
Cross,  than  a  king  on  a  throne.  Let  the  men  of  this  world 
possess  its  glittering  toys ;  let  the  miser  grasp  his  cankered 
gold  ;  let  the  voluptuary  enjoy  his  sordid  pleasures  ;  let  the 
ambitious  ascend  to  the  pinnacle  of  earthly  honor  ;  but  let  me 
enjoy  the  sweet  satisfaction  of  pointing  the  poor  pagans  to  the 
Lamb  of  God.  I  court  no  greater  good  ;  I  desire  no  greater 
joy  ;  I  seek  no  greater  honor.  To  Burmah  wo'ild  I  go  ;  in  Bur- 
mah  would  I  live  ;  in  Burmah  would  I  die  ;  in  Burmah  would 
I  toil  ;  and  in  Burmah  would  I  be  buried." — See  Am.  Bap.  Mag. 
March,  1820. 


112  POEMS. 

Do  such  repinings  well  beseem  the  tongue 

That  daily  prays — Father,  thy  will  be  done  ? — 

No,  God  forbid  !    We  sorrow,  not  as  those 

Who  have  no  hope,  grief's  cruel  wounds  to  close. 

Wheelock  !   thy  race  on  earth,  though  short,was  run  ; 

Thy  Master  called  thee,  and  thy  work  was  done  1 

Thy  flesh  may  slumber  in  the  silent  deep, 

Yet  there,  secure  in  blessed  hope,  'twill  sleep 

Till  the  last  pealing  trump  shall  bid  it  rise, 

To  join  thy  spirit  in  the  blissful  skies. — 

Let  this  sweet  hope  revive  the  drooping  heart, 

And  joy  to  sorrow,  peace  to  grief  impart. 

Yes,  Wheelock!  yes.    No  more  we  sing  thee  lost. 
Lo  !  brighter  scenes  our  wondering  eyes  have  crost. 
Then  softly  sleep  thee  in  the  ocean  wave ; 
Its  murmuring  billows  shall  but  gently  lave 
Thy  sacred  dust. — Eliza,  weep  no  more ; 
In  heaven  ye  soon  shall  meet,  though  Wheelock 's 
gone  before. 
March,  1820. 


THE    SUN    OF    RIGHTEOUSNESS. 

I  was  a  wanderer  once — a  mazy  wild, 

With  briers  overgrown,  my  footsteps  pressed 

From  kindred,  friends,  and  home,  alas !  exiled, 
And  vainly  seeking  for  a  place  of  rest. 


POEMS.  113 

Ah,  fool  !  to  leave  my  dear  paternal  home, 
I  wildly  cried,  in  chace  of  false  delight  ! 

Now  doomed  a  wretched  wanderer  to  roam, 

While  gathering  clouds  transform  the  day  to  night. 

Thus  while  I  spoke,  a  furious  storm  arose, 
The  fierce  wind  whistled  through  the  gloomy  wood; 

Dark  o'er  my  head  the  thickening  shadows  close, 
And  rising  terror  chilled  the  vital  flood. 

Sudden  'twas  calm — the  wild  wind  ceased  to  rave  ; 

Black,  sullen,  awful,  moved  the  storm,  but  slow ; 
Incessant  lightnings  met  the  anxious  gaze, 

And  peals  of  thunder  round  me  muttered  low. 

Some  friendly  shelter  I  essayed  to  find, 

Now  here,  now  there,  my  fainting  footstep  turned  ; 

But  still  the  maze  perplexed  my  dubious  mind, 
And  Heaven,  methought,  my  supplication  spurned 

Even  Hope,  fond  flatterer  of  the  troubled  breast, 
Quelled  by  despair,  within  my  bosom  died ; 

Yet  still  the  last  resource  of  prayer  I  pressed, 
In  agony  that  could  not  be  denied 

Nor  pressed  in  vain! — the  wrathful  clouds  gave  way, 
Forth  broke  the  sun,where  late  the  thunder  pealed; 

A  glorious  light  shone  on  my  darkened  day, 
And  safety,  hope,  and  home,  at  once  revealed  ! 
10* 


114  POEMS. 

In  that  dear  home  securely  sheltered  now, 
I  warn  the  young  of  sin's  bewildering  maze ; 

And  pay  deep  gratitude's  immortal  vow, 

And  sing,  O  Sun  of  Righteousness,  thy  praise  ! 
1820. 


SYMPATHY. 

What  means  this  melancholy  gloom, 

That  shrouds  my  eye,  and  swells  my  heart? 
Alas,  a  youthful  stranger's  doom 
Affects  my  soul  with  pity's  smart. 
— Methinks  I  see  her  throes  of  anguish 

As  fevers  in  her  pulse  beat  high ; 
Methinks  anon  I  see  her  languish 
In  faint,  exhausted  lethargy  ! 

And  now,  methinks,  that  lovely  form, 

Soft  fashioned  by  the  Almighty's  hand, 
Sinks  like  the  flower  beneath  the  storm, 
And  yields  to  Death's  severe  command. 
— But,  O,  that  sweet,  immortal  spirit, 

Washed  pure  in  Jesus'  precious  blood, 
Forsakes  the  dying  flesh,  to  inherit 
An  endless  happiness  with  God  ! 

Ye  mourning  friends,  that  o'er  her  weep, 
Is  she  not  free  from  sin  and  pain  ? 

Why  would  ye  rouse  her  from  that  sleep, 
Till  Jesus  shall  return  again  ? 


POEMS.  115 

— O,  then  before  his  Father's  glory, 
Her  faultless  beauty  He'll  present; 

And  Heaven's  own  high,  immortal  story 
Tell  what  this  early  summons  meant ! 
1819. 


ON    RETURNING    FROM    A    JOURNEY. 

My  praise,  though  humble,  yet  sincere, 
God  of  the  traveller  !  approve  ; 

The  eye  that  sheds  the  grateful  tear, 
The  heart  that  glows  with  sacred  love. 


THE    CHRISTIAN'S    LAST    CONFLICT. 

Scene— The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.— Ps.  xxiii.  4. 

Chris. — I  come,  O  Death  !  No  fears  my  breast  assail, 
Mid  the  still  horror  of  this  gloomy  vale ; 
Though  stern  thine  aspect,  and  tho'  keen  thy  dart, 
To  me  a  welcome  messenger  thou  art ! 

Death. — What  means  this  language  ?    Ill   beseems 

thee  here, 
Poor  wretch  !   to  hide  in  boasts  thine  inward  fear. 
For  mid  the  countless  multitudes  that  throng, 
Age  after  age,  this  dreary  vale  along, 


1  1  G  POEMS. 

Of  every  rex  and  age — tho  prince,  the  slave — 
The  rich,  the  poor — the  coward,  or  the  brave — 
Whate'er  their  asj>ect  be— all  inly  feel 
One  common  terror  o'er  their  spirits  steal. 
Deem'st  thou  I  cannot  pierce  the  vain  display, 
That  bids  defiance  to  my  sovereign  sway  ? 
Hast  thou  a  shield  more  sure  ?     Canst  thou  repel 
The  dart  whose  barbed  point  is  dipped  in  hell  ? 

Chris. — Yes,  O  inexorable  king  ! — Though  dressed 
In  thy  most  dread  array,  my  tranquil  breast 
Invites,  not  fears,  thy  stroke  !     My  happy  soul 
Longs  to  go  forth  to  her  appointed  goal. 

Death. — Me  thinks  thou  dost  but  mock  !     Can  such 

desire, 
In  guilty  Man,  be  aught  but  that  false  fire, 
From  vain  and  wild  enthusiasm  bred, 
In  ignorance  of  what  awaits  the  dead  ? — 
Know'st  thou  thyself — and  Him  thou  art  to  meet, 
Amid  the  terrors  of  the  judgment  scat? 

Chris. — I  do. — Yet,  Death,  I  still  defy  thy  power  ! 

Sin  is  thy  sting — but  that  I  fear  no  more. 

Know'st  thou  not  Him  of  Calvary  ?    For  me 

He  bore  the  curse  of  sin,  and  I  am  free. 

He  broke  thine  iron  sceptre  wh?n  He  rose 

In  glorious  triumph  over  all  his  foes. 

His  Spirit  now  within  me  is  my  pledge 

Of  pardon  and  of  heaven.     There  is  no  edge 

Of  thine  can  hurt  me,  monster !    Though  I  die, 


POEMS.  117 

Thine  utmost  malice  boldly  I  defy  ; 

Not  in  my  strength,  but  His,  I  greet  thee  well, 

Assured  of  victory  over  Death  and  hell. 

Death. — Dost  thou  defy  me  thus  ?    This  thirsty  dart 
Shall  drink  the  life-stream  from  thy  panting  heart; 
Thy  lifeless  corpse  shall  feel  and  own  my  power, 
Corruption  seize  it,  and  the  worm  devour ! 

Chris. — Strike  then  !  for  reckless  of  thine  utmost 

A  willing  victim,  lo  !  I  cross  thy  path.  [wrath, 

This  feeble  flesh  I  yield  a  helpless  prey, 

Till  thy  great  Conqueror's  triumphal  day. 

But  then,  O  Death  !  thy  delegated  power, 

The  dread  of  ages,  sees  its  final  hour ! 

Then  shall  I  triumph  !     At  the  trumpet's  tone, 

Corruption,  incorruption  shall  put  on ; 

This  mortal  rise  in  immortality, 

And  Death  be  swallowed  up  in  victory  ! 

Death. — The  stroke  thou  dost  defy,  shall  make  thee 

bow — 
Whate'er  thy  hope  be,  mine's  the  victory  now. 

Chris. — Thanks  for  that  blow  ! — From  earth  it  set 

me  free. — 
Now  breathes  my  soul  celestial  liberty  ! 
On  swift  and  joyful  pinions  now  I  rise, 
Where  God,  my  Savior,  reigns  above  the  skies ; 
Suns,  systems,  stars  recede,  beneath  me  rolled, 
And  heaven  above  me  wide  expands  her  gates  of  gold. 
1820. 


118  roEMs. 

STRIKE    THE    LOUD    LYRE. 

WRITTEN    ON    HEARING    OF    THE     DEATH    OF 
MY    SISTER    EMILY. 

Strike  the  loud  lyre  o'er  the  grave  of  the  just ! 

For  the  spirit  has  burst  from  its  thrall, 
And  clapped  its  glad  wings  o'er  the  motionless  dust, 

As  it  rose  to  the  Father  of  all ! 
Yes !  strike  it,  through  tears,  o'er  the  grave  of  the 
just, 

For  they  sleep  on  the  bosom  of  Peace ; 
And  though  we  may  weep  o'er  their  ashes,  we  must 

Exult  in  their  happy  release. 

Strike  the  loud  lyre  o'er  the  grave  of  the  just ! 

For  the  chain  of  mortality's  riven; 
And  though  dark  was  the  sweep  of  that  terrible  gust, 

'Twas  a  whirlwind  that  bore  them  to  heaven  ! 
As  Elisha  at  first,  when  Elijah  was  gone, 

Gazed  with  awe  on  the  chariot  of  flame ; 
Then,  seizing  his  mantle,  went  steadily  on — 

May  we  in  our  grief  do  the  same  ! 

Strike  the  loud  lyre  o'er  the  grave  of  the  just ! 

For  they  see  Him  on  earth  they  adored  ; 
And  free  from  the  bondage  of  darkness  and  dust, 

They  walk  in  the  light  of  the  Lord  ! 
O  rich  is  the  rapture  that  thrills  through  them  now, 

As  their  course  is  divinely  approved  ; 


POEMS.  119 

And  the  crown  of  the  victor  is  bound  on  each  brow, 
By  the  hand  of  their  Savior  beloved. 

Strike  the  loud  lyre  o'er  the  grave  of  the  just! 

For  the  millions,  imprisoned  erewhile, 
Away  from  the  grasp  of  Corruption  have  burst, 

And  hailed  Immortality's  smile  ! 
Subject  no  longer  to  death  or  decay, 

Temptation,  affliction,  or  pain ; 
A  palace  of  joy  for  a  prison  of  clay, 

The  spirit  exults  to  regain. 

Mark  how  the  soul  is  expressed  in  the  eye, 

Intelligence,  virtue,  and  joy  ! 
As  lightly  they  rise  to  their  home  in  the  sky, 

To  begin  their  eternal  employ. 
What  vigor,  what  grace,  and  what  glory  are  theirs ! 

How  it  shines  on  each  eloquent  brow ! 
The  redeemed  ones   of  Jesus — God's  children  and 
heirs  — 

What  is  wanting  to  happiness  now  ? 

Strike  the  loud  lyre — but  the  grave  is  no  more  ! 

The  new  earth  contains  not  a  tomb ! 
But  a  life,  whose  perfection  they  dreamed  not  before, 

Shall  around  them  eternally  bloom. 
While  such  is  their  triumph, — and  such  is  our  trust 

In  Jehovah's  unchangeable  word, 
O,  strike  the  loud  lyre  o'er  the  grave  of  the  just, 

For  they  rest  in  the  love  of  the  Lord. 


120  POEMS. 

And  thou,  my  sweet  sister!    just  gone  to  the  grave, 

Thy  grave  is  the  grave  of  the  just ! 
Thou  didst  lean  on  the  Arm  that  is  mighty  to  save, 

His  word  was  thy  buckler  and  trust. 
I  have  given  to  Nature  her  tenderest  tears — 

O'er  the  loss  of  a  treasure  I've  mourned ; 
But  grace  in  thy  life  so  triumphant  appears, 

That  my  tears  to  thanksgiving  are  turned. 

I  bless,  O,  I  bless  Him  from  whom  I  received 

Such  a  sister — my  senior  in  years — 
And  when  of  my  father  and  mother  bereaved, 

My  guide  in  this  valley  of  tears. 
And  though  thou  art  silent  and  cold  in  the  dust, 

And  Affection  weeps  over  thee  now, 
I  strike  the  loud  lyre  o'er  the  grave  of  the  just, 

For  such,  my  dear  sister,  wast  thou. 
Hamilton,  May,  1623. 


THOUGHTS    AT    THE    GRAVE. 

Are  there  not  moments,  Christian  !  when  the  heart 
Seems  to  burst  forth  to  freedom  from  the  sphere 

Of  dim  mortality — and  gladly  part 

With  that  adhesive  selfishness,  which  here 
Checks  Virtue's  generous  growth — and  nobly  rear 

Its  warm  affections  to  a  heavenward  aim  1 
When  objects  of  eternal  worth  are  dear, 

In  somewhat  the  proportion  which  they  claim, 
From  Reason's  sober  voice,  and  the  Redeemer's  name  ? 


POEMS. 


121 


These  sacred  moments  were  thy  happiest !     Then, 

How  sunk  to  nothingness  the  things  of  earth '. 
How  all  that  stirred  the  tide  of  passion,  when 

Thou  knew'st  no  joy  save  the  light  flash  of  mirth, 

Lost  its  illusive,  perishable  worth  ! 
And  thou  couldst  part  with  all,  without  a  sigh, 

Sustained  by  precious  hopes  of  heavenly  birth — 
Consoled  by  promises  from  Him  on  high — 
And  joying  in  his  love  with  untold  ecstasy  ! 

Such  were  my  feelings,  that  calm  Sabbath  even, 
When  o'er  my  much-loved  sister's  grave  I  hung, 

And  thought  of  her. — Over  the  bright  blue  heaven 
The  setting  sun's  last  lingering  rays  were  flung  5 
The  soft  rich  clouds  round  the  horizon  hung, 

Like  curtains  of  another  world  appeared  ! 
And  groups  of  living  forms  were  seen  among 

The  silent  dwellings  of  the  dead.     All  feared 
To  break  that  awful  stillness,  to  the  heart  endeared. 

It  was  an  hour  for  high  and  solemn  thought— 

The  very  silence  of  those  stones  did  preach 
Lectures  with  more  than  mortal  wisdom  fraught, 

In  language  far  more  eloquent  than  speech. 

And  what  triumphant  lessons  did  they  teach 
Of  Him  who  slept  in  Judah's  guarded  tomb —       [reach 

Yet  rose  Death's  Vanquisher  !    The  soul  could 
Forward  in  faith  through  time's  dissolving  gloom, 
And  hail  the  risen  saints  in  their  immortal  bloom  ! 

Such  glorious  lessons  at  the  grave  are  taught 
To  Man — and  Man  may  learn  them  if  he  will  j 

And  every  visit  to  the  tomb  be  fraught 
With  purer,  richer  influences  still. — 
11 


122 


POKMS. 


And  thus  I  felt,  as  that  calm  scene  did  thrill 
Upon  my  thoughts  a  sweetness  mixed  with  awe  :— 

'  Some  little  nook  this  weary  frame  shall  fill, 
•  When  I,  obedient  to  the  general  law, 
•  Shall  from  the  shadowy  scenes  of  mortal  life  withdraw.' 

The  full-orbed  Moon  rose  beautiful,  as  Hope 

Upon  the  sunless  evening  of  Despair, 
And  shed  upon  that  gentle  eastern  slope, 

Her  soft  and  solemn  glory — and  the  air 

Breathed  forth  so  fresh  and  cool — the  landscape  fair, 
Lay  stretching  out  before  me  in  its  green 

Attire  of  beauty — and  star  after  star 
Came  forth  above,  with  lustre  so  serene, 
It  seemed  that  earth  and  he  aven  had  met  to  grace  the  scene. 

'Twas  then  I  thought  of  Emily  !  and  long 

In  sacred  musing  at  her  grave  I  stood. 
I  did  not  weep.     With  consolation  strong, 

And  sweet  as  mine  for  Emily,  who  could  ? 

No,  mine  was  not  a  melancholy  mood — 
I  felt  my  heart  expanding,  and  my  love 

Took  hold  on  the  vast  universe  of  good  ! 
What  though  our  last  loved  friend  on  earth  remove, 
Doth  not  our  Father  live  ?  Is  not  our  home  above  ? 

Hamilton,  July  1,  1823. 


THE    DEATH-BED    WARNING 

OF    MISS    L W . 

My  dear  young  friends,  who  stand  around 
My  bed  to  catch  my  dying  sigh  j 


123 


O,  if  you  have  rcy  found 

From  Him  v  ho  reigns  a^ove  the  sky, 
Unto  the  Savior  quickly  fly, 

And  pour  your  sorrows  at  his  feet ; 
He  will  not  let  your  spirits  die, 

But  give  you  consolation  sweet. 

But,  O,  the  pangs  of  those  who  dwell 

In  realms  of  everlasting  gloom  ! 
Such  fate  is  theirs,  who  dare  rebel 

Against  their  God  in  early  bloom. 

Warned  by  my  unexpected  doom, 
O,  tread  the  path  the  Savior  trod  ! 

Then,  though  Death  call  you  to  the  tomb, 
Your  spirits  shall  ascend  to  God. 
July,  1817. 


AN    APPEAL    FOR   THE    HEATHEN. 

From  Zion's  hill,  crowned  with  celestial  light, 
Where  life  immortal  heaves  in  every  breath, 

Direct,  O  Christian  !  thine  exploring  sight 
To  yon  dark  region  in  the  shade  of  Death  ! 

See  Superstition,  in  her  direst  form, 

Reign  o'er  thy  fellow-men  without  control ; 

See  Lust  defile,  and  Cruelty  deform, 

And  Guilt  enthral  and  desolate  the  soul. 


124  POEMS. 

How  absolute  the  arch-destroyer  reigns  ! 

His  power  concealed  with  such  consummate  art, 
That  souls  in  bondage  love  their  very  chains, 

And  revel  in  the  madness  of  their  heart. 

Mark  yon  poor  Burman,  whose  benighted  mind 
Was  never  taught  to  know  the  Name  divine  ; 

To  all  the  glory  of  the  Savior  blind, 

Bow  down  at  Gaud'ma's  mercenary  shrine. 

Hark !  what  loud  shriek  is  quivering  on  the  air.-* 
It  comes,  O  Christian  !  from  yon  bed  of  fire ; 

Where  the  dark  Brahmin  mutters  words  of  prayer, 
And  the  son  lights  his  living  mother's  pyre  ! 

Christians,  awake  !  the  time  for  sleep  is  past — 
Wake,  or  on  you  must  come  the  guilt  of  blood  ! 

A  world's  loud  misery  swells  upon  the  blast — 
Wake  to  the  summons  of  the  Lord  your  God  ! 
1822. 


SAPPHIRA. 
ACTS  V.  9 — 11.       A    FRAGMENT. 

How  is  it  ye  could  thus  conspire 
To  tempt  the  Holy  Spirit's  ire  ? 

To  lie  unto  your  God  ! 
Thou  that  couldst  join,  or  forge,  a  lie, 
Stampt  with  such  dread  hypocrisy, 


POEMS.  125 

And  think  to  cloak  the  deed  of  shame 
Beneath  the  Christian's  hallowed  name, 

Must  reap  as  thou  hast  sowed ! 
Behold,  the  feet  of  them  that  bore 
Thy  husband  forth,  are  at  the  door — 

They  bore  him  to  his  grave  ! 
And  thee,  most  wretched  woman,  too, 
Accomplice  of  his  guilt  and  wo, 
Shall  the  same  awful  doom  betide ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  cold  lie  by  his  side — 

No  mortal  power  can  save  ! 
1821. 


THE    LAMB    OF    GOD. 

Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  ! 
The  victim  He  ordains, 
To  expiate,  with  sacred  blood, 
Sin's  dark  malignant  stains. 

Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  ! 
Whom  Abraham  prophesied, 
Though  Isaac  dimly  understood, 
God  would  Himself  provide. 

Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  ! 
The    antitype  divine, 
Of  that  which  turned  the  avenging  rod 
From  Israel's  holy  line. 
11* 


1 


126  POEMS. 

Behold  the  Lamb  of  God, 
With  touching  meekness  stand ; 
While  monsters,  thirsting  for  his  blood, 
Bare  high  the  murderous  hand ! 

Behold  the  Lamb  of  God, 
Immaculately  pure, 
Bound  mutely  on  the  accursed  wood, 
Our  burden  to  endure  ! 

Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  ! 
In  agony  he  dies  ! — 
Sinners  !  can  you  that  precious  blood 
In  wantonness  despise  ? 
1822. 


THE    FALLS    OF    NIAGARA. 

I. 

Years  may  roll  on,  but  never  shall  their  race 
Bring  to  my  eye  another  sight  like  this ; 

Nor  shall  the  rushing  flood  of  Time  efface 
The  sentiments  profound  of  awe  and  bliss  ; — 
No  !  never  can  my  mind  hereafter  miss 

The  images  so  strongly  there  engraved ; 
That  overwhelming  Fall — that  dread  abyss 

From  which  the  living  torrents  rose  and  raved : — 
Whatever  it  may  lose,  this  scene,  at  least,  is  saved. 


POEMS.  127 

II. 

And  I  have  seen  thee,  wonder  of  the  world ! 

Unequalled  cataract !  my  country's  pride  ! 
With  all  thy  weight  of  waters  downward  hurled, 

As  if  in  earth's  deep  bowels  thou  wouldst  hide 

Superior,  Huron,  Erie's  blended  tide  ! 
And  I  that  foaming  tide  emerge  have  seen, 

As  winding  down  the  precipice's  side, 
Dipt  by  thy  spray  in  everlasting  green, 
At  thy  dread  foot  I  stood,  and  viewed  the  wondrous 
scene, 

III. 
And  shall  I  now  attempt  to  body  forth 

Its  mighty  features  in  descriptive  song  ? 
Bold  effort !  and  perhaps  of  little  worth  ; — 

Yet,  it  would  seem,  some  tribute  doth  belong 

To  Nature's  master-work,  from  mortal  tongue  ; 
And  thou,  my  friend,*  the  effort  dost  demand  : 

Rouse  then  thy  spirit  to  conception  strong, 
And  come  with  me,  in  fancy  take  thy  stand 
Amidst  the  terrible,  the  beautiful,  the  grand  ! 

IV. 

The  sweep  majestic  of  the  river's  brow, 

Which,  far  above,  extends  from  shore  to  shore ; 

The  island,  like  a  foam-encircled  prow ; 

Heaven's  bright  blue  arch  rising  behind  and  o'er; 
The  lake-born  torrents,  as  with  ceaseless  roar, 

Over  the  everlasting  rocks  they  roll, 

*  This  description  was  addressed  to  a  friend. 


128  roEMS. 

Impatient,  to  the  dizzy  leap  before ; 
All  rush  at  once  upon  the  startled  soul, 
At  the  first  rapid  glance  your  eye  throws  o'er  the 
whole. 

V. 
But  sight  is  mingled  at  the  heart  with  sound — 
The  loud,  the  deafening  thunder  of  the  Fall ; 
Which  seems  at  first  sensation  to  confound, 
The  brain  to  madden,  and  the  breast  appal, 
And  spread  annihilation  over  all ! — 
The  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  sheeted  foam, 

Which  to  the  eye  appears  a  snow-built  wall, 
On  which  is  reared  a  bright  cerulean  dome, 
That  poets  well  might  take  for  Fancy's  airy  home  ! 

VI. 

The  clouds  of  rising  and  dissolving  spray, 
Which  wave  and  wanton  in  the  gusty  wind ; 

On  which  the  sunbeams  hold  their  magic  play, 
Painting  gay  rainbows  of  each  glorious  kind, 
That  change  their  shape  and  color,  like  the  mind 

Of  soft  and  ductile  youth  with  every  scene ; 
Now  swelling  upward  free  and  unconfined, 

In  matchless  beauty  and  resplendent  sheen ; 
Now  bursting — leaving  but  the  black  abyss  between  ! 

VII. 

The  dark  and  dripping  cliffs,  which  overhead 
Rise  like  the  war-built  towers  of  ancient  time, 

Breathing  defiance,  and  inspiring  dread ; 
Which  echo  back,  with  emphasis  sublime, 


POEMS.  129 

The  cataract's  awful  sounds,  in  measured  chime, 
Rolling  along  the  deep  and  distant  pass, 

Until  at  length  the  blood-stained  heights  they 
climb, 
Where  swelled  the  roar  of  battle — where,  alas  ! 
Our  country's  sons  and  foes  fell  in  one  mingled  mass. 

VIII. 

Then,  the  still  darker  torrent  at  your  feet, 

Whose  green-wreathed  floods  boil  up  from  the 
abyss ; 
To  whose  unfathomed  depths,  in  one  broad  sheet, 
They  thundering  fell — whose  tides  with  horrid 

hiss, 
Like  venomous  serpents  vast,  do  seem,  I  wis, 
Writhing  in  pain,  and  madly  rushing  by 

Toward  far  Ontario's  bed, — all,  all  of  this, 
Must  have  struck  on  the  heart,  the  ear,  the  eye, 
To  give  the  awful  sense  of  its  sublimity. 

IX. 

O,  there  I  thought — and  thought  did  well  beseem 

A  scene  so  full  of  fearful  majesty — 
If  with  such  wonders  his  creation  teem, 

What  must  the  glory  of  their  Author  be  ! 

With  what  deep  reverence  and  humility, 
Ought  we  to  bow  before  his  mighty  hand  ! — 

Lord  of  creation  and  eternity  ! 
Shall  human  pride  not  quail  at  thy  command  ? — 
The  thunder  of  thy  power.,  0,  who  can  understand .' 
Buffalo,  July  6,  1823. 


130  POEMS. 

TO    CAROLINE. 
AN    ACROSTIC. 

Called  by  your  Savior  in  the  b 
A  meek  disciple  at  the  shrine  o, 
Reflect,  O  Caroline,  with  grateful  s  . 

0  n  the  rich  mercy  of  Omnipotence, 

L  avished  upon  your  soul  with  lustre  rare, 

1  n  that  dark  hour  when  sinking  in  despair ! 
N  or  cease  to  own  it  is  through  Jesus'  love, 

E  nraptured  now  you  seek  the  glorious  life  above. 

W  hat  humble  gratitude,  what  love  sincere, 
I  n  all  your  future  conduct  must  appear ! 
Let  each  day's  first  inquiry  with  you  be — 
Command  me,  Lord  !  what  I  may  do  for  thee. — 
O  n  high  behold  a  bright  and  palmy  throng, 
X  erxes'  vast  host  outnumbering,  cheer  you  on. 
O,  keep  their  bright  example  full  in  view, 
Nor  ever  be  ashamed  of  Him  who  died  for  you. 
1820. 


LINES    ADDRESSED    TO    THE    SISTER    OF    A 
FEMALE    MISSIONARY.* 

Tnr  sister  is  gone  to  a  distant  land, 
And  her  face  thou  canst  not  see ; 

*  Mrs.  Wade. 


POEMS.  131 

For  the  last  time  thou  hast  pressed  her  hand, 
And  heard  her  speak  to  thee. 
I  do  not  marvel  that  thou  wert  moved, 
In  parting  with  one  so  much  beloved. 

Yet  hushed  be  every  murmuring  thought, 

To  the  stillness  of  the  tomb ; 
That  cloud  was  with  richest  mercy  fraught, 
Though  it  spread  a  transient  gloom. 
What  was  on  yesterday  sown  with  sorrow, 
Perhaps  thou  mayst  reap  in  joy  to-morrow. 

The  ship  is  afloat  on  the  ocean  now, 

And  before  the  freshening  gale ; 
Dost  thou  net  hear  her  rushing  prow, 
And  see  her  snow-white  sail  ? 
To  the  Burman  shore  has  the  helmsman  bound  her, 
And  all  is  sea  and  sky  around  her  ! 

O,  weep  not  now  for  that  sister  dear, 

As  though  she  were  left  of  all ! 
Indulge  not  a  single  faithless  fear, 
As  to  what  may  her  befall. 
Dread  not  the  rage  of  the  troubled  ocean, 
For  her  God  can  quell  its  wildest  motion. 

Yet  thou  full  oft  will  think  of  her, 

At  the  morning  and  evening  hour, 
When  thoughts  of  those  we  hold  most  dear, 
Have  a  soft  and  soothing  power. 
Think  then  of  her  on  the  rolling  billow, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  o'er  thy  peaceful  pillow. 


132  POEMS. 

O,  do  not  deem  that  thy  prayer  is  vain, 
When  thou  askest  for  her  a  hlessing ; 
Though  ye  may  not  meet  on  earth  again, 
All  a  sister's  love  expressing. 
To  the  prayer  of  love  will  the  Savior  listen, 
And  wipe  the  tears  in  her  eyes  that  glisten. 

Many  a  month  o'er  the  dark  blue  deep 

Will  the  Missionaries  sail ; 
O,  let  not  thy  love  one  moment  sleep, 
Nor  thy  prayers  one  moment  fail, 
Till  her  voice  in  Burmah  thy  sister  raises, 
And  tears  and  prayers  become  smiles  and  praises ! 
July  1,  1823. 


ENTRANCE    INTO    HEAVEN. 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  SUDDEN  DEATH    OF  MISS 
LUCY  ANN  PRATT. 

How  sudden,  yet  soft,  did  the  Summoner  come ! 

In  a  moment  her  spirit  had  made  the  exchange  ; 
And  the  Shining  Ones  bore  her  aloft  to  the  home, 

Where  her  hopes  had  aspired  in  their  infinite  range. 

But  who  shall  describe  the  new  objects  she  saw 
The  sounds  which  she  heard,the  sensations  she  felt: 

The  mixture  of  wonderland  rapture,  and  awe, 
With  which  at  the  throne  of  her  Savior  she  knelt ! 


POEMS.  133 

Encircled  with  glory  that  never  shall  fade, 

How  enlarged  was  her  love,  and  how  full  was  her 

j°y> 

As  she  gazed  at  the  myriads  around  her  arrayed, 
And  mingled  at  first  in  their  happy  employ  ! 

These  thoughts  shall  assuage,  not  extinguish  our 
grief — 
Roll  on,  years  of  sadness  and  suffering,  roll ! 
To  the  lone  widowed  mother  ye  bring  not  relief, 
Till  ye  open  the  portals  of  heaven  to  her  soul ! 
Buffalo,  July,  1823. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MRS.     L J— 

'Tis  well !    Her  mortal  part  is  gone 
From  earth  to  join  its  kindred  clay ; 

And  now  by  Weeping  friends  is  borne, 
On  yon  slow-moving  hearse,  away. 

What  though  the  dust  returns  to  dust, 

Ashes  to  ashes  turn  again  ! 
The  immortal  spirit  of  the  just 

Is  freed  from  sorrow,  sin,  and  pain. 

Her  Savior  called  her  from  the  earth ; 

To  his  dear  arms  her  spirit  flies ; 
How  welcome  was  the  stroke  of  death ! 

How  peacefully  the  Christian  dies  ! 
12 


134  POEMS. 

Now  in  a  far  more  happy  clime, 
Her  soul  has  found  its  blest  abode  ; 

And,  with  immortal  gaze  sublime, 
Beholds  the  glory  of  her  God. 

There,  while  ten  thousand  years  roll  on 
In  those  bright  realms  of  peace  and  joy, 

Her  love  shall  rise  in  higher  tone, 

And  praise  shall  be  her  sweet  employ. 

Then,  mourning  friends,  dry  up  your  tears, 
And  weep  no  more  for  her  that's  dead ; 

For,  O  !  a  few  more  rolling  years 
Will  lay  us  in  our  lowly  bed. 

1818. 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    AN    AGED    CHRISTIAN. 

Long  had  she  lingered  'neath  the  load  of  life, 
Too  oft  a  prey  to  doubts,  temptations,  fears  ; 

Oft  had  she  witnessed  sin's  distressing  strife, 
Oft  wet  her  couch  with  penitential  tears. 

But  now  her  painful  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 

And  should  we  mourn  at  such  a  thought  as  this  ? 

Since  death  to  her  threw  wide  the  glorious  door 
Of  entrance  into  everlasting  bliss. 

When  from  the  shackles  of  this  world  set  free, 
Her  joyful  soul  triumphantly  could  sing — 

O  vanquished  Grave  !   where  is  thy  victory  ? 

And  where,  O  Death  !   where  is  thy  dreaded  sting  ? 

1818. 


POEMS.  135 


TO    THE    MOTHER    OF    LUCY    ANN. 

With  the  care  of  thy  youth,  and  the  hope  of  thy  age, 
Thy  life's  sweetest  solace,  and  sunshine  of  heart, 

In  the  season  most  fitted  thy  love  to  engage, 

Thou  art  called — O,  how  sore  is  the  trial ! — to  part. 

The  desire  of  thine  eyes  was  removed  at  a  stroke, 
And  joy  was  extinguished,  and  hope  fled  afar; 

But  thy  Savior  will  bind  up  the  heart  that  is  broke, 
And  revive  the  soft  lustre  of  memory's  star. 

Thou  shalt  muse  on  the  virtues  of  her  thou  hast  lost, 
On  all  which  in  Christian  remembrance  endears ; 

Till  Time  the  dark  torrent  of  grief  shall  exhaust, 
And  thankfulness  spring  in  the  midst  of  thy  tears. 

For  no  wearisome  languor  had  worn  her  away, 
No  anguish  protracted  the  bosom  to  rend ; 

In  the  springtide  of  health,  in  the  morn  of  her  day, 
In  the  freshness  of  beauty,  she  came  to  her  end ! 

While  the  joys  which  the  hopes  of  the  future  impart, 
Were  undashed  by  the  dregs  of  Adversity's  gall; 

While  domestic  affections  beat  warm  in  her  heart, 
Where  grace  had  breathed  over  and  hallowed  them 
all:— 

While  her  faith  in  the  Savior  was  steady  and  strong, 
And  the  hope  of  salvation  shone  lovely  and  bright; 


136 


POEMS. 


While  the  love  of  her  Lord  was  her  solace  and  song — 
She  slept — and  was  borne  to  the  mansions  of  light.* 

To  those  mansions  of  light  let  thy  hopes  then  ascend, 
Lone  mourner  !  till  life's  rapid  course  shall  be  o'er ; 

And  the  mother  and  child  in  eternity  blend 
Affections  now  severed,  to  sever  no  more. 
Buffalo,  July,  1823. 


TO    THE    SISTERS     OF    LUCY    ANN. 

Blooming  on  this  rude  tract  of  earth, 

A  modest  floweret  raised  its  head, 
And  in  despite  its  humble  birth, 

Beauty  revealed,  and  fragrance  shed  : 
More  full  each  day  its  leaves  were  spread, 

Brighter  became  its  tints  each  hour ; 
And  strangers  as  they  passed  it  said, 

They  ne'er  had  seen  a  sweeter  flower. 

But  He  who  knew  and  loved  it  best, 
Designed  it  for  a  spot  more  fair  ; 

*  The  pious  and  accomplished  young  lady  to  whom  these 
lines  refer,  was  drowned,  at  the  age  of  eighteen.    But  a  mo- 
ment before  this  sudden   and   overwhelming  catastrophe,  she 
was  singing  those  beautiful  lines  of  Cowper — 
'  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly,' 
as  if  almost  in  anticipation  of  her  approaching  fate. 


137 


He  saw  its  opening  bloom  repressed 
By  the  rude  soil  and  sultry  air ; — 

Of  darkly  gathering  storms  aware, 
He  plucked  it  from  its  earthly  bed, 

And  set  it  in  heaven's  bright  parterre  ; 

But  strangers  thought  the  flower  was  dead. 

Sisters  of  Lucy  Ann  !  her  worth 

Must  still  your  tenderest  sorrow  move ; 
Words  are  but  vain  to  picture  forth 

The  fondness  of  a  sister's  love  : 
O,  it  were  all  in  vain  to  prove 

Your  loss  is  great  beyond  compare  ; 
Unless  you  meet  in  climes  above, 

To  bloom  in  stainless  beauty  there. 

'Tis  true,  you  cannot  bid,  at  will, 

The  calm  of  soul  succeed  distress ; 
Hearts  formed  as  yours  will  cherish  still 

The  memory  of  her  loveliness  : 
Again  in  fancy  will  you  press 

Her  image  to  your  aching  heart, 
And  dream  that  from  your  fond  caress 

She  never,  never  more  will  part. 

'Tis  but  a  dream  !    The  light  of  truth 

The  sweet  illusion  will  dispel ; 
For  in  the  brightness  of  her  youth — 

But  who  that  tale  of  wo  may  tell ? 
Dimness  that  day  upon  us  fell  ! 

Age  shock  his  hoary  locks,  and  sighed  j 
12* 


138  POEMS. 

And  Youth  turned  pale  when  rung  the  knell 
That  told  us  Lucy  Ann  had  died. 

Yes,  though  Affection  bade  her  live, 

And  Virtue  said  she  could  not  die  ; 
Though  every  pledge  that  earth  could  give, 

Bound  her  to  life's  soft  witchery  ; 
Even  while  her  pulse  was  beating  high 

With  hopes  that  fill  the  stainless  breast ; 
And  health  sat  sparkling  in  her  eye — 

She  sunk  to  her  eternal  rest. 
■*#•**•** 
Lucy  is  in  her  shroud  ! — Her  cheek 

Is  pale,  and  cold  her  ivory  brow, 
And  mute  her  tongue.     But  could  she  speak 

From  her  eternal  dwelling  now — 
As  spirits  speak  in  glory — how 

Would  she  enforce  with  touching  truth — 
1  Remember  your  Creator  now, 

'  My  sisters,  in  the  days  of  youth  !' 
Buffalo,  Juhj,  1823. 


CALL    TO    ZION. 

Awake,  awake  !  put  on  thy  strength,  O  Zion  !— Isai.  lii.  1 

Rise,  church  of  Jesus  !  rise, 

Break  from  thy  long  repose 
Awake,  fair  daughter  of  the  skies, 

And  triumph  o'er  thy  foes. 


POEMS.  139 


Array  thyself  in  grace 

And  majesty  divine ; 
Come  forth  in  freshest  loveliness, 

And  in  full  glory  shine. 

Shake  off  the  yoke  of  sin ; 

Thy  Savior's  name  adore ; 
And  never  let  the  foot  unclean 

Pollute  thine  altars  more  ! 
1822. 


AT    COMMUNION. 

O,  why,  in  this  season  of  gladness,  should  wander 
One  thought  of  my  heart,  blessed  Savior,  from 
thee' 

Seal,  seal  me  thine  own,  while  1  silently  ponder 
Thy  love  to  a  sinner  and  outcast  like  me  ! 

Thou  hast  sought  me,  and  saved  me ;  and  now  at 
thy  table 
I  meet  thee  and  thine,  in  the  wine  and  the  bread ; 
O,  in  this  sweet  communion  thy  servant  enable 
To  learn  the  devotion  that  follows  the  dead  ! 
1828. 


140  POEMS. 

EPITAPH    ON    MRS.     N B , 

WIFE   OF  F P B ,   ESQ. 

Stranger  !  the  form  that  slumbers  here, 
Embalmed  in  many  a  bitter  tear, 
Was  once  as  rich  in  charms  divine, 
Graceful,  gay,  eloquent,  as  thine. 
O,  but  as  yesterday  she  moved 
In  life — so  loving,  so  beloved  ! 
But  paleness  gathered  on  her  cheek — 
The  rest  doth  not  this  marble  speak  ? 

Never  did  form  of  beauty  hold 
A  spirit  of  a  lovelier  mould  ; 
Both,  both  belonged  to  God  alone  ; 
But,  O,  in  Him,  they  were  my  own. 

I  loved  and  sought  them  many  a  year, 
Buoyant  with  hope,  or  chilled  with  fear. 
And  I  obtained  them.     Rapture  hung 
Upon  my  thought — upon  my  tongue. 
Months  were  but  moments — only  four 
Were  fled,  and  Naomi  was  no  more  ! 

My  heart  is  desolate — yet  still 
Bows  reverent  to  my  Savior's  will. 
He  gave  in  mercy,  and  removed — 
O,  may  he  still  be  praised  and  loved ! 
1824. 


POEMS.  141 


THE    TEMPTATION    OF    CHRIST. 

How  wondrous  a  scene  did  the  desert  once  know, 
When  the  Savior  of  men  was  assailed  by  the  foe  ; 
When  hell's  haughty  leader,  disguised  as  a  friend, 
With  the  art  of  a  pleader,  led  on  to  his  end. 

When  he  parleyed  with  Eve,  he  accomplished  his 
Her  soul  to  deceive,  to  the  ruin  of  Man ;  [plan, 

Now  choosing  the  season  of  Jesus's  need, 
With  what  show  of  reason  the  tempter  did  plead ! 

To  distrust  the  kind  care  of  his  Father  above, 
Was  the  first  subtle  snare  which  for  Jesus  he  wove ; 
But  Jesus,  perceiving  the  plot  that  was  laid, 
Repulsed  him,  believing  his  Father  would  aid. 

When  he  could  not  succeed  to  awaken  distrust, 
The  tempter  would  lead  to  presumption  the  Just : 
To  Scripture  appealing — O,  who  could  have  thought 
He  thus  was  concealing  the  evil  he  sought ! 

Thus  with  Scripture  he  lied  !   But  the  lie  was  in  vain; 
For  Jesus  replied,  '  It  is  written  again  !' 
The  perversion  correcting,  with  wisdom  divine — 
Truth's  lustre  reflecting — how  bright  did  he  shine  ! 

Thus  signally  foiled  by  the  Savior  once  more, 
The  serpent  uncoiled,  who  was  hidden  before ; 
Though  nor   doubt,  nor   presumption,   with    Jesus 

prevail, 
Another  assumption,  he  thinks,  cannot  fail. 


142  toems. 

That  passion  which,  deep  in  the  core  of  the  heart, 
Like  an  adder  will  sleep,  till  his  voice  bid  it  start, 
He  calls — but  ambition  in  Jesus  was  not ! 
And  deep  to  perdition  sunk  Satan's  vile  plot. 

Hell  howled  at  the  sight  of  its  leader's  defeat, 
Heaven  smiled  with  delight  at  the  triumph  complete; 
The  Father  hath  crowned  him  and  blessed  him  aloud, 
The  angels  around  him  adoringly  crowd 

With  rapture  I  see  the  victory  gained 
By  him  who  for  me  the  conflict  sustained. 
But  was  my  Lord  tempted,  and  can  I  expect 
I  shall  be  exempted  through  Satan's  neglect  r 

No !  the  race  which  he  run,  we  like  him  must  run 

through, 
The  triumph  he  won,  we  are  called  to  win  too ! 
Awake  me,  awake  me,  to  conflict,  my  Lord ! 
Nor  ever  forsake  me  while  wielding  the  sword  ! 


IMPROMPTU. 

The  following  lines  were  hastily  sketched  with  a  pencil  in  the 
register  of  visitors  at  the  Seneca  Mission  House,  near  Buf- 
falo, N.  Y.,  September  22,  18Q3. 

Stranger  !  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

Visiting  this  humble  spot ; 
From  the  bottom  of  thy  heart, 

Own  the  blessings  of  thy  lot. 


/ 


i 


POEMS.  143 

Why  vvert  thou  not  born  as  these, 
Far  from  sweet  salvation's  light ; 

All  thy  dawning  infancies 
Wrapt  in  clouds  of  pagan  night  ? 

Who  has  thus  distinguished  thee  ? 

4  God  !'  with  gratitude  reply; 
*  He  controlled  my  destiny  ! 

He  in  privilege  raised  me  high !'  — 

Hast  thou  praised  him  as  thou  ought — 
Stranger  !  hast  thou  praised  the  Lord? 

In  the  living  glow  of  thought, 
Be  his  glorious  name  adored  ! 

Stranger  !  for  thy  brethren  feel — 
Brethren,  born  of  kindred  clay ; 

Brethren,  whose  immortal  weal 
Trembles  on  life's  transient  day. 

Dost  thou  love  the  Throne  of  Grace  ? 

Bear  them  on  thy  heart  in  prayer ! 
The  remnants  of  a  dying  race, 

Pity,  aid,  relieve,  and  spare  ! 


ON    HEARING    THE     BELL    TOLL    FOR    A 
STRANGER. 

How  distressing  to  die  in  a  distant  spot, 
Where  friends  and  connections  know  it  not ' 


144  POEMS. 


THE     APOLOGY. 


When  the  author  resided  in  Buffalo,  N.  V.,  it  was  customary 
for  clergymen,  at  weddings,  to  kiss  the  newly-married  cou- 
ple. His  extreme  youth  and  diffidence  having  prevented 
him  from  complying  with  this  custom  on  the  first  occasion 
where  he  was  present,  though  the  parties  concerned  were  his 
particular  friends,  he  addressed  them  these  lines,  the  next 
morning,  as  a  sort  of  apology. 

TO    MR.    AJTJD    MRS.    B. 

O,  do  not  deem  that  my  love  was  weak, 

Because  I  approached  you  not 
To  imprint  upon  your  glowing  cheek 
My  rejoicings  in  your  lot ! 
That  love  as  deep  and  as  pure  may  be, 
Which  ascends  on  high  in  its  secrecy  ! 

Blessings  that  earth  can  never  give, 

That  love  sought  for  its  friends  ; 
Blessings  in  life  and  in  death  that  live, 
And  spring  up  when  nature  ends — 
To  flourish  and  blossom  in  brighter  spheres, 
Through  the  silent  lapse  of  unnumbered  years. 

Unbidden  thoughts,  with  a  touching  power, 

Brought  back  sweet  Lucy's  doom  ; 
And  dimly  spoke  of  a  coming  hour, 
That  shall  change  the  bridal  bloom  : — 
But  He  who  knoweth  the  heart  can  tell 
That  my  heart  in  its  fulness  wished  you  well. 


POEMS.  145 

And  although  a  cloud  might  shade  my  brow, 

While  amid  that  circle  gay, 
From  a  feeling  I  need  not  mention  now, 
It  sprung— nor  will  pass  away, 
Till  the  friends  of  my  heart  shall  have  made  a  choice, 
Over  which  the  angels  in  heaven  rejoice  ! 

And  when  the  visions  of  time  are  gone, 

And  heaven  and  earth  are  fled, 
And  the  awful  voice  from  the  judgment  throne 
Has  summoned  the  quick  and  dead — 
You  shall  know  far  better  the  cause,  than  now, 
Of  the  cloud  that  shaded  that  night  my  brow. 
September  24,  1823. 


VOICE    OF    DEPARTING     DAY. 

O,  there  are  lovely  lights  that  rest 

Upon  thy  landscape,  Buffalo  ! 
When  the  broad  sun  has  gained  the  west, 

And  sheds  from  thence  his  softest  glow. 

Oft  have  I  marked  the  lingering  gleam 
On  village  bright  and  woodland  brown, 

As  if  from  heaven  a  glorious  stream 
Of  molten  gold  were  rolling  down ! 

And  I  have  seen  the  dewy  cloud 
Flung  loosely  o'er  the  azure  sky, 
13 


14G  POEMS. 


Like  regal  robe  of  monarch  proud, 

red  with  the  richest  Tyrian  dye 


Tinged 


I've  watched  till  all  these  tints  would  fade, 
The  golden  light — the  mellow  glow — 

And  evening  in  her  tranquil  shade 
Had  wrapt  the  varied  scene  below ; — 

And  thought,  as  day's  departing  beam 
Shone  lovelier  far  than  all  the  rest, 

Its  voice  was  as  a  gentle  dream — 

Man !  thy  last  days  should  he  thy  best ! 
October,  1824. 


FROM    REAL    LIFE. 

"  Many,  whilst  they  live,  stand  in  a  light  so  dubious,  and 
die  under  conjectures  so  painful,  as  to  furnish  no  criterion 
upon  which  their  final  coudition  may  be  decided.  All  our  in- 
quiries, as  to  the  true  character  and  leading  bent  of  their  hearts, 
are  negatived  by  the  rigid  neutrality  which  they  maintained 
betwixt  Christ  and  the  world.  For  many  traits  of  moral  good- 
ness they  may  have  been  distinguished  ;  probably  they  have 
worn  about  them  Virtue's  upper  garment,  and  appeared  clad 
in  the  robes  of  Decency  ;  but  their  hearts  have  never  yielded 
to  God  in  vivid  charity,  nor  felt  the  exalted  glow  of  brotherly 
love,  nor,  for  aught  we  can  tell,  have  they  known  what  it  is  to 
be  born  again.' — Brantley. 

What  are  those  deep  and  solemn  tones 
Now  swelling  on  th'  autumnal  gale  ? 
Now  sinking,  like  the  dying's  moans, 


POEMS.  147 

Those  solemn  tones  have  each  a  voice, 

Formed  not  by  any  human  breath ; 
To  speak  the  end  of  earthly  joys, 

To  sound  the  awful  knell  of  death. 

And  who  has  left  this  mortal  sphere  ? 

What  new  and  never-dying  soul 
Plas  closed  life's  vanishing  career, 

And  reached  the  everlasting  goal  ? 

O,  let  me  breathe  the  name  on  high, 

Responsive  to  affection's  call, 
Soft  as  the  winds  of  Summer  sigh, 

Sad  as  the  leaves  of  Autumn  fall ! 

The  Daughter — who,  when  life  was  young, 
Was  justly  deemed  a  mother's  pride  ; 

On  whom  a  father's  fondness  hung, 
While  gently  blushing  by  his  side. 

The  Virgin — who,  in  years  gone  by, 
Arrayed  in  modest  youthful  charms, 

The  light  of  beauty  in  her  eye, 
Was  given  to  a  husband's  arms. 

The  Wife — who,  still  in  every  scene, 
Her  patient  constancy  would  prove  ; 

Whose  brow  still  wore  its  smile  serene  ; 

Whoso  eye,  whose  voice,  whose  soul,  was  love. 

The  Mother — who,  from  earliest  years, 
A  numerous  offspring  arontly  trained; 


148  POEMS. 

Who  for  their  welfare  watched  with  tears, 
And  fondly  every  toil  sustained. 

The  Matron — who,  when  care  was  laid 
Aside,  and  quiet  evening  come 

To  her  fond  family  still  made 
A  little  paradise  of  home. 

The  Friend — in  every  varied  sphere 
Of  action  where  she  brightly  moved, 

To  many  a  social  circle  dear, 

By  many  a  breaking  heart  beloved. 

The  Christian — but  a  mournful  veil 
Here  her  true  character  conceals  ; 

And  bitterly  did  she  bewail 

The  void  her  social  life  reveals. 

A  sinner — who  against  her  God 
In  unprovoked  rebellion  rose, 

Keenly  she  felt  his  chastening  rod, 
Ere  life's  prolonged  and  painful  close. 

Nor  all  her  social  virtues,  then, 
To  comfort  her  the  least  availed ; 

They  could  not  bear  the  Omniscient  ken, 
And  hope  and  joy  forever  failed. 

Sunk  in  her  long  and  deep  decline 
Were  all  her  active  mental  powers ; 

Feebly  she  sought  for  aid  divine, 

To  soothe  and  cheer  her  mortal  hours. 


149 


The  peace  of  faith,  the  light  of  hope, 
Blest  not  her  dim  and  drooping  mind ; 

And  prayer  incessant,  offered  up, 

No  bright  and  sweet  response  could  find. 

But,  O  !  perchance  her  penitence 

And  faith,  though  feeble,  were  sincere  ; 

Perchance  the  Savior's  blood  might  cleanse, 
And  she  may  yet  in  heaven  appear. 

Fondly  to  this  frail  hope  we  cling, 

While  weeping  o'er  the  cherished  dust, 

And  wait  the  awful  day  to  bring 
The  retribution  of  the  just. 

The  knell  that  rolls  upon  the  breeze, 
Speaks  long  and  loudly  in  our  ear ; 

And  every  blast  that  strips  the  trees, 
Cries  with  a  warning  voice,  '  Prepare  !' 

So  when  the  Fall  of  age  is  past, 
And  the  cold  death  of  Winter  o'er, 

We  shall  revive  in  Spring  at  last, 
To  wither  and  to  die  no  more. 


THE    SABBATH    BELLS. 

The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 

Waking  the  hush  of  holy  time  ; 
How  sweet  the  solemn  concert  swells 

Mow  swells  the  soul  with  thought  sublime  ! 
13* 


150  POEMS. 

TIME. 
A    THOUGHT    ON    THE    SHORE    OF    LAKE    ERIE. 

As  Erie  pours  his  ceaseless  ocean  stream, 

So  pours  the  noiseless  tide  of  Time  along : 
What  is  the  Past  ?    A  dim  remembered  dream. 

What  is  the  Present  ?    An  entrancing  song. 
What  is  the  Future  ?    Splendid  visions  throng 

Of  coming  scenes  and  joys — how  vain,  alas  ! 
Of  all  that  to  this  perished  earth  belong, 

Nothing  remains,  but  the  unperished  mass 
Of  deeds  and  words  and  thoughts,  that  on  to  judg- 
ment pass ! 


MY    SISTER 

Thou  meek,  thou  pure,  thou  patient  one, 

Bright  heir  of  heavenly  bliss, 
O  !  is  it  true  that  thou  art  gone 

To  a  better  world  than  this  ? 
That  the  damp  cold  turf  doth  bury  deep 

That  form  to  me  so  dear — 
No  more  to  pray,  to  watch,  to  weep, 

A  lonely  mourner  here  ? 

That  warm  fond  heart,  on  good  intent, 

And  is  its  beating  o'er  ? 
Shall  those  dark  eyes,  so  eloquent, 

Then  greet  my  own  no  more  ? 


POEMS.  151 

That  gentle  voice,  whose  blessed  strain 

Was  as  an  angel's  tone, 
My  Christian  virtues  to  sustain — 

O  !  is  it — is  it  flown  ? 

Why  do  I  ask  ?     I  may  not  doubt 

Thine  earthly  ties  are  riven  ; 
And  heart  and  life  like  thine  speak  out, 

That  thou  art  gone  to  heaven  ! 
And,  O,  may  piety  so  pure 

A  pattern  be  to  me  ! 
May  I  unto  the  end  endure, 

And  meet  my  Emily  ! 


THE    WORK    OF    LIFE. 

'  The  night  cometh.' — John  ix.  4. 

The  glow  of  day  is  fading  fast, 
The  chill  of  eve  is  on  the  blast ; 
The  sun  is  sinking  in  the  sky ; 
The  gloom  of  gathering  night  is  nigh. 

*  Servants,  work  till  close  of  day  !' 
(Thus  I  heard  the  Master  say,) 

4  Short  the  time  assigned  to  you — 

*  Much,  O,  much  remains  to  do. 

\  Servants,  cease  !  the  time  is  o'er, 
1  Earth  must  claim  your  toil  no  more. 


f 


15*2  POEMS. 

'  Each  must  now  receive  reward 
'In  the  reckoning  witli  his  Lord. 

1  Hence,  ye  slothful !  leave  my  sight, 
'  Bound  and  borne  to  utter  night ; 
1  There  receives  the  righteous  due — 
'  Heaven  has  not  a  place  for  you  ! 

'  Rise,  ye  faithful !  take  the  throne  ; 
'  Well  the  work  of  life  is  done ! 
1  Rest  in  glory  now  with  me — 
1  Yours  is  my  eternity  !' 

The  glow  of  day  is  faded  now ; 
Cold  is  the  blast  upon  the  bough ; 
The  sun  has  sunk  in  darkened  skies ; 
Who  were  the  foolish  ?  who  the  wise  ? 
1623. 


A    YEAR    OF    LIFE. 

I  have  closed  another  year  of  life, 
And  commenced  anew  to-day  ; 

And  I  fain  would  mark  my  spirit's  strife 
To  maintain  her  heavenward  way- 

Her  heavenward  way  !  And  can  it  be, 
That  to  heaven  my  pathway  tends  ? 

That  with  calm  and  devoted  constancy, 
Toward  heaven  my  footstep  bends  ? 


v 


POEMS.  153 

It  does,  it  does,  through  richest  grace  ! 

Though  from  that  blessed  goal 
A  wandering  path  I  sometimes  trace, 

Yet  God  restores  my  soul. 

0  !  let  me  weep  over  every  track 
Of  error  that  mars  my  way  ; 

And  rear  to  the  love  that  has  brought  me  back, 
A  monument  to-day  ! 

Another  and  most  eventful  year 

Its  hurried  flight  has  sped ; 
And  many  a  change,  in  its  swift  career, 

It  has  poured  upon  my  head. 

1  would,  but  I  cannot,  realize 
These  changes  that  mark  my  lot, 

Though  they  have  torn  from  my  weeping  eyes 
One  never  to  be  forgot ! 

My  Emily — my  best  beloved — 

The  sister  of  my  heart ! 
Is  now,  alas  !  from  the  world  removed, 

Where  she  filled  so  bright  a  part. 

She  who  rose  with  me  side  by  side, 

In  childhood's  sweetest  hours ; 
Who  led  me  on,  with  a  sister's  pride, 

Through  learning's  fragrant  bowers  ; — 

She  who  before  me  so  early  walked 
In  religion's  holy  ways, 


154  POEMS. 

And  with  cheering  voice  of  affection  talked 
In  the  blest  Redeemer's  praise ; — 

Whose  example  was  like  an  inspiring  breath, 

For  years  amid  perils  dread  ; 
And  whose  smile  came  bright  thro'  the  cloud  of  death, 

Now  rests  in  her  clay-cold  bed  ! 

When  last,  May  came  with  her  laughing  hours, 

Others  might  join  the  ring  ; 
But  my  sister  was  crowned  with  the  deathless  flowers 

Of  an  everlasting  Spring. 

She  is  gone  to  our  Father's  house  above, 

Where  her  heart  had  gone  before  ; 
And  she  dwells  in  the  light  of  that  holy  love, 

Which  at  distance  we  adore. 

****** 

So  one  by  one  do  my  friends  depart, 

So  leave  me,  my  kindred  all ; 
And  in  accents  that  pierce  my  inmost  heart, 

Comes  God's  most  solemn  call. 

Ye  cherished  ones  that  have  gone  before, 

Though  your  names  I  may  not  tell, 
Till  we  meet  again  on  a  pangless  shore, 

A  sweet,  but  brief  farewell ! 
January  ],  1824. 


I 


POEMS.  155 


TO    AMANDA. 


AN    ACROSTIC. 


A  manda  !  let  me  strike  for  thee 

M  y  lyre  of  simplest  melody  ; 

And  wake  within  thy  breast  the  glow 

N  one  but  the  pure  in  heart  can  know, 

D  ivinely  called  like  thee  in  youth, 

And  turned  to  holiness  and  truth. 

P  ress  on  !  press  on  !  thy  path  pursue ; 
A  world  most  glorious  is  in  view  ! 
Resplendent  gleams  the  sacred  prize, 
K  ept  for  the  faithful  in  the  skies ; — 
E  nduring  to  the  end,  that  crown 
Resplendent  shall  be  soon  thine  own. 


FEMALE    DIGNITY. 

Happy  the  female  who,  amid  the  bloom 

And  brilliant  promise  of  life's  early  day, 
Raises  her  kindling  eye  beyond  the  tomb, 
Refulgent  with  hope's  ever-living  ray  ; 
Intent  on  higher  objects  than  assume 
Enchantment  in  the  day  dreams  of  the  gay, 
Till  death  dissolve  the  dream,and  tear  the  mask  away. 


156  POEMS. 

Firm  in  her  purpose,  in  her  faith  sincere ; 

Redeemed  from  every  low  and  grovelling  aim; 
Aspiring  to  a  purer,  happier  sphere  ; 

Nobly  aspiring,  struggling  still  to  claim 
Companionship  with  angels,  rising  near 

Eternal  glories,  with  ingenuous  shame, 
Seeing  her  defects  still — herself  alone  to  blame. 

Noble  indeed  the  mind,  that  thus  can  look 

On  life,  as  on  the  restless  rapid  stage, 
Revolving  much,  I  deem,  the  Sacred  Book 
To  count  it  so)  of  heavenly  pilgrimage  ! 
O,  can  she  pause  on  her  high  path,  and  brook 
JYovels,  and  ploys,  and  balls  ? — With  'noble  rage' 
She  spurns  them  as  the  vile  corrupters  of  the  age  ! 
1824. 


RELIGION. 

ADDRESSED    TO    MY    YOU>G    FRIEND,  J P- 

There  is  a  pure  and  brilliant  gem 
That  trembles  in  life's  diadem; 
Refulgent  in  the  living  light 
Of  heaven's  own  sun,  it  sparkles  bright. 
A  gem  so  pure,  so  rich,  so  rare, 
It  glows  on  earth  beyond  compare  : 
Golconda's  mines  afford  it  not ; — 
Who,  then,  this  brilliant  gem  hath  got  ? 


I 


POEMS.  157 

All  that  shall  seek  it,  and  succeed, 
Though  poor  before,  are  rich  indeed. 
All  who  this  brilliant  have  not  won, 
Are  poor,  and  beggared,  and  undone. 

A  boon  so  rich — so  bright  a  meed — 
May  not  be  earned  by  human  deed. 
It  comes  unborrowed,  and  unbought, 
From  heaven,  whene'er  'tis  humbly  sought. 
O  Julia  !  seek  it  from  above — 
An  interest  in  the  Savior's  love  ! 


THE    FALL    OF    TURKEY. 

The  storm  of  war  is  gathering  fast, 
Dark  in  the  north  and  east  it  lowers  ! 

The  Caspian  feels  the  rising  blast, 
And  loud  the  troubled  Euxine  roars. 

Turkey  has  seen  the  awful  sign, 
Portentous  of  her  coming  doom ; 

Russia  and  Persia's  arms  combine 
To  crush  her  empire  to  the  tomb. 

They  come  !  they  come  !  their  banners  wave- 

Their  armor  flashes  to  the  sun ; 
Their  plumes  are  nodding  o'er  the  brave, 

Ere  yet  the  work  of  death  is  done. 
14 


158  POEMS. 

The  Moslem  shrinks.     Where  now  is  Greece? 

Rising1  in  all  her  ancient  might, 
She  spurns  a  vile  inglorious  peace, 

And  rushes  dreadful  to  the  fight. 

See  Freedom's  banners  proudly  toss  ! 

The  Greek  has  struck  '.  the  Greek  has  won ! 
The  Crescent  fades  before  the  Cross — 

Wo,  wo,  unto  the  Ottoman  ! 

In  vain  the  Prophet's  standard  streams- 
Vain  is  the  sultan's  haughty  call ; 

In  pale  cold  light  the  Crescent  gleams, 
Presage  of  its  approaching  fall ! 
1822. 


MY    NATIVE    LAND. 

A    GEOGRAPHICAL    FANCY. 

My  native  land  !  my  native  land  ! 
I  see  thy  glorious  soil  expand ; 
I  see  thee  stretch  from  sea  to  sea, 
Whose  ocean  waves  encircle  thee, 
As  doth  some  soft  and  swelling  vest 
A  virgin's  fair  and  spotless  breast. 
East,  the  Atlantic's  billows  roll, 

To  Europe  and  to  Afric  joining  ; 
West,  the  Pacific's  meek  control 

With  Asia  is  thy  coast  combining. 


/ 


159 


St.  Lawrence  shines  thy  northern  crest, 
Thy  lakes  like  plumes  in  beauty  flow ; 

While  by  thy  southern  foot  is  prest 
The  mighty  Gulf  of  Mexico  ! 


THE    SEA    OF    BLOOD. 
2  Kings  iii.  9—24. 

Seven  days,  the  sun  rolls  o'er  their  fainting  heads, 
As  move  the  allied  hosts  through  Edom's  vale  ; 

Still,  still  before,  the  lengthening  vista  spreads, 
And  all  their  hopes  in  dread  despondence  fail. 

One  fate — one  horrid  fate  ! — See  every  tongue 
Is  swollen  and  throbbing  with  unsated  thirst. — 

The  pitying  chiefs  o'er  dying  warriors  hung — 
Till  thus  the  wrath  of  Israel's  monarch  burst : — 

'This  is  Jehovah's  working  !     Well  I  know, 
'  The  jealous  God,  provoked  at  my  disdain, 

'  To  glut  the  fury  of  our  rebel  foe, 

'  Has  bound  our  armies  to  this  fatal  plain.' — 

'  Jehoram,  cease  !    Breathe  not  the  lightest  word 
'Against  that  Name,'  cried  Judah's  pious  king: 

'  Is  there  not  here  a  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 

'  Haste,  guards,  the  son  of  Shaphat  hither  bring.' 


160  POEMS. 

Three  monarchs  stood  before  the  holy  seer, 
And  Israel's  had  already  silence  broke  ; 

The  man  of  God  eyed  him  with  look  severe, 
And  thus  with  lofty  indignation  spoke  :  — 

'  This  voice  from  thee,  Jehoram  ?    What  have  I, 
1  Wretched  idolater,  to  do  with  thee  ? 

'  To  the  false  prophets  of  thy  father  fly, 

'Nor  tempt  me  with  such  impious  mockery.' 

The  monarch  shrunk  before  that  glance  and  word  j 
But  smothering  deep  the  gloomy  fire  within, 

'  Nay,  son  of  Shaphat,  tell  us,  hath  the  Lord 
'  Doomed  us  to  perish  here  for  ancient  sin  ?' — 

'  Thy  heart  is  veilless  in  the  light  divine  ! — 
'  As  the  Lord  liveth  in  whose  sight  I  stand, 

'  Jehoram,  thou  shouldst  hear  no  voice  of  mine, 
'  Were  not  the  king  of  Judah  at  thy  hand. 

1  Bring  me  a  minstrel.'     Forth  the  minstrel  came ; 

The  harp  of  Zion  ruled  the  troubled  hour  : 
The  prophet's  eye  beams  with  celestial  flame, 

His  spirit  feels  Jehovah's  awful  power. 

•  Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  Deep  in  the  burning  vale, 

1  Dig  the  broad  trench  in  haste.     Prepare,  prepare  ! 
'Ye  shall  not  see  the  rain,  nor  hear  the  gale, 

I  Yet  streams  shall  rise,  roll,  and  refresh  you  there. 

'Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  This  thing  alone  were  light ; 

I I  give  the  host  of  Moab  to  your  hand, 


/ 


I 


POEMS.  161 

'  Cities,  and  fruits,  and  fountains.     Ye  shall  smite 
'With  desolation  all  the  guilty  land.' 

The  prophet  ceased.     Obedient  to  his  voice, 

With  broad  deep  pits  they  trenched  the  spreading 
vale ; 

In  fresh-sprung  hope  the  fainting  hosts  rejoice, 
And  wait  to  see  the  morning  light  prevail. 

The  morn  has  broken  o'er  the  mountain  steep, 
On  which  the  Moabites  in  arms  repose ; 

The  warriors  spring  exultingly  from  sleep, 
And  turn  their  eager  glance  upon  their  foes. 

What  sight  of  horror  meets  the  startled  eyes, 
The  vale  below  appears  one  sea  of  blood ! 

A  moment  fixed  they  stand  in  mute  surprise, 
Then  cry  in  ardent  and  exulting  mood, — 

'  On,  Moab,  on  !    Death  fills  the  purple  vale  ! 

c  The  work  is  done,  and  we  are  saved  the  toil  ■ 
'  Thus  ever  triumph,  O  propitious  Baal  ! 

'On,  Moab,  on  !  secure  the  golden  spoil.' 

As  torrents  bursting  from  impending  steeps, 
In  wild  confusion,  and  with  hoarse  uproar, 

So  rushed  the  host  of  Moab,  heaps  on  heaps, 
Down  to  that  bloody  sea's  tremendous  shore. 

It  was  illusion  all  !     The  sun's  first  beams, 
From  purple  skies  and  crimson  clouds,  alone, 

Reflected  on  the  newly-gushing  streams, 
dazzling  the  eye,  in  gay  delusion  shone. 
14* 


162  POEMS. 

Delusion  gay,  but  deadly  ! — Gathering  soon, 
The  allied  hosts  rose  like  a  sudden  flood, 

And  ere  that  rising  sun  had  gained  his  noon, 
Moab  was  floating  in  a  sea  of  blood. 

Thy  word,  Jehovah,  stood  ! — Unthought-of  means, 
Betray  the' guilty  to  the  avenger's  hand; 

And  still,  throughout  time's  ever-changing  scenes, 
Thou  art  the  same — Thy  word,  Jehovah,  stands  ! 


THE    LATIN    HYMN    OF    FRANCIS    XAVIER. 

SUKNAMED    '  APOSTLE  TO  THE  INDIES.'       BORN,  1506  ) 
DIED,  1552,  .*.  46. 

O  Deus  !  ego  amo  te, 

Nee  amo  te  ut  salves  me, 

Aut  quia  non  amantes  te 

iEterno  punis  igne. 

Tu,  tu,  mi  Jesu !  totum  me 

Amplexus  es  in  cruce  ; 

Tulisti  clavos,  lanceam, 

Multamque  ignominiam, 

Innumeros  dolores, 

Sudores,  et  angores, 

Ac  mortem ;  et  ha?c  propter  me, 

Et  pro  me  peccatore. 

Cur  igitur  non  amem  te, 

O  Jesu  amantissime  ! 


/ 


POEMS.  163 

Non  ut  in  coelo  salves  me, 
Aut  in  seternum  damnes  me, 
Aut  pra;mii  ullius  spe ; 
Sed  sicut  tu  amasti  me, 
Sic  amo,  et  amabo  te  ; 
Solum  quia  Rex  meus  es, 
Et  solum  quia  Deus  es. 

Of  this  celebrated  hymn,  many  translations  into  English  verse 
have  appeared  ;  no  one  of  which  is  thought  to  '  come  near 
the  simplicity  and  tenderness  of  the  original.'  The  follow- 
ing is  an  attempt  at 

A    NEW    TRANSLATION. 

1  O  my  God  !  I  do  love  thee, 
Not  because  thou  savest  me  ; 
Neither  springs  my  strong  desire 
From  the  dread  of  endless  fire. 

2  Thou,  my  Jesus  !  thou  didst  die 
On  the  cross  of  agony  ; 

And  the  fulness  of  thy  grace 
Folded  me  in  its  embrace  ! 

3  Thou  didst  bear  the  nails,  the  spear, 
Ignominy  dark  and  drear, 
Sorrows  numberless  and  sore, 
Sweats  that  broke  from  every  pore. 

4  Now  they  drag  thee  from  the  hall ; 
Now  they  mock  thy  thirst  with  gall ; 
Now  I  mark  thy  laboring  breath ; 
Now  thy  head  is  bowed  m  death  ! 


1(34  POEMS. 

5  Didst  thou  all  these  sufferings  take, 
Savior  !  for  a  sinner's  sake  ? 

Why  then  should  I  not  love  thee, 
When  such  love  as  this  I  see, 

0  Incarnate  Charity  ! 

6  Not  because  secured  from  hell, 
Do  I  love  thee,  Lord  !  so  well : 
Not  because  I  am  forgiven, 
Not  because  I  hope  for  heaven. 

7  No  !  the  hope  of  no  reward 
Prompts  my  heart  to  its  regard  ; 
But  for  undeserved  good-will, 

1  love  thee,  and  must  love  thee  still !; 

8  As  my  glorious  King  alone, 
Reigning  on  a  rightful  throne  ; 
Only  as  my  God  above, 
Thee,  my  Jesus  !  thee  I  love. 

March  20,  1824. 


i 


ANOTHER. 

O  God  !  I  do  indeed  love  thee  ! 
Yet  not  because  thou  savest  me  ; 
Nor  springs  my  ardor  of  desire 
From  dread  of  everlasting  fire. 

Thou,  my  Jesus,  didst  engross 

My  heart  upon  the  fatal  cross ! 

O,  thou  didst  bear  the  nails,  the  spear, 

And  matchless  ignominy  there  ! 


/ 


165 


Innumerable  sorrows  wrung 
Thy  bosom,  Lord  !  in  anguish  hung  ; 
While  the  cold  sweat,  the  laboring  breath, 
Hasten  the  dreadful  work  of  death. 

And  all  for  me  ;  for  me  was  borne 

The  pangs  with  which  thy  heart  was  torn ! 

For  me  a  sinner  !    Tell  me  why 

My  love  should  not  to  thine  reply  ? 

'Tis  not  to  gain  salvation.     No  ! 
That  could  not  warm  my  bosom  so  ; 
No  hope  of  heaven,  no  fear  of  hell, 
Could  make  me  love  thee,  Lord,  so  well. 

But  'tis  thine  own  most  generous  love 
Doth  every  power  within  me  move ; 
This,  this,  alone,  has  won  my  heart, 
My  King,  my  God,  alone  thou  art ! 


ELEGY 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER. 

It  was  the  lot  of  the  author  to  lose  both  his  parents  in  a 
single  month,  before  he  had  reached  the  age  of  fourteen.  The 
following  lines,  with  a  few  alterations  chiefly  verbal,  were 
written,  on  that  occasion,  and  are  of  course  one  of  his  earliest 
compositions  in  poetry  This  circumstance  will  account  for 
any  thing  juvenile,  or  even  puerile  in  the  turn  of  thought ;  as 
the  author  has  felt  a  wish  to  preserve  as  perfectly  as  possible 


ICG  roEius. 

his  natural  impressions  at  that  early  period,  and  on  an  on 
at  once  so  important  and  melancholy.  It  is  perhaps  almost 
unnecessary  to  add,  that  his  serious  impressions  at  the  time 
issued,  he  humbly  trusts,  in  leading  him  to  the  pursuit  and  ul- 
timate attainment  of  that  Christian  piety,  which  term 
conspicuous  a  leature  in  the  character  of  his  departed  parents. 
Never,  never  can  he  cease  to  bless  God  for  them.  He  can  truly 
say  in  the  beautiful  language  of  Cowper — 

"  3Iy  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth  j 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies." 

And  is  it  so — my  father — mother — gone  ? 

Are  they  both  dead  ?     Alas  !  it  is  too  true. 
And  I  am  then  an  orphan,  left  to  mourn 

O'er  blessings  perished  ere  their  worth  I  knew ! 

Forgive,  blest  spirit  of  my  father  dear ! — 
If  e'er  thou  lookest  from  thy  bright  abode — 

Forgive  the  wish  that  would  have  kept  thee  here, 
To  crown  my  days  with  many  a  needful  good. 

And  thou,  my  sainted  mother  !  thou  wilt  join 
In  this  forgiveness  of  a  soul  oppressed  ; 

Though  never,  never  more  shall  love  like  thine 
On  earth  appear  to  soothe  this  sorrowing  breast. 

O,  how  neglectful  was  I  of  your  love, 

While  yet  I  had  your  presence  and  your  prayers  ; 
Alas !  how  seldom  could  your  smiles  approve 

A  son  unworthy  of  your  tender  cares ! 


POEMS.  167 

Now,  now,  my  sin  and  shame  upon  me  roll — 
Beneath  this  burden,  O,  how  can  I  live  ? 

My  parents,  speak,  and  calm  this  troubled  soul — 
Even  from  the  grave  your  guilty  child  forgive 

No  sculptured  marble  tells  your  humble  name — 
Of  men  ye  never  sought  nor  valued  praise ; 

No  minstrel's  lyre  your  virtues  gives  to  fame, 
Or  sings  your  sorrows  in  immortal  lays. 

But  still  this  faithful  memory  shall  keep 
Its  record  bright,  engraven  on  my  heart ; 

Still  o:er  your  name  shall  fond  Affection  weep, 
And  every  wound  with  dear  remembrance  smart. 

Large  gratitude  is  due  to  Heaven,  I  know, 

That  such  kind  parents  were  conferred  on  me  j 

What  do  I  not  to  their  instructions  owe, 
Of  all  1  am — of  all  I  hope  to  be  ! 

Yes,  ye  did  teach  me,  in  my  earliest  years, 

That  virtue's  paths  are  pleasantness  and  peace  ; 

And  still  with  mild  reproof  and  melting  tears, 
To  warn  me  of  my  follies  did  not  cease. 

And,  O,  may  God,  in  his  rich  mercy,  grant 
I  may  on  earth  a  Christian's  name  sustain ; 

And  each  good  precept  ye  did  here  implant, 
May  eyer  rooted  in  my  heart  remain  ! 
i 

When  from  the  bustle  of  the  noisy  crowd, 
At  early  morn,  and  eventide,  set  free  ; 


168  MflWflt 

Then,  then,  my  parents,  is  my  spirit  bowed, 
In  fervent  prayer,  that  such  my  lot  may  be  ! 

Then,  too,  my  loss,  my  love,  my  grief,  revives — 
All  that  lay  buried  in  my  mourning  breast, 

Again  in  fond  imagination  lives, 

In  nature's  hues  with  softened  beauty  dreat. 

Then,  then,  your  image  rises  on  my  view — 
I  stretch  my  arms  to  clasp  the  empty  shade ; 

But  only  bitterest  agonies  renew, 

By  disappointment  doomed  to  be  betrayed. 

Again  with  anguish  I  your  loss  deplore — 

Those  eyes  of  love  must  beam  no  more  on  me ! 

I  see  your  face — I  hear  your  voice  no  more — 
Your  graves  are  raised  beside  yon  aged  tree  ! 

Yet  why,  ye  blest  ones,  why  should  I  complain 
That  ye  have  left  a  world  of  pain  and  strife  ? 

When  well  I  know  for  you  to  die  was  gain — 
Yours  is  a  better  and  a  happier  life  ! 

For  blest  the  dead,  who  die  as  Christians  die  ! 

Yea,  saith  the  Spirit,  for  they  sweetly  rest 
From  earthly  labors,  and  their  souls  on  high, 

In  full  fruition  of  their  God,  are  blest. 

For  such  we  mourn,  with  fond  affection  warm, 
Yet  not  as  those  whom  hope  can  never  cheer ; 

Nor  are  we  left,  unauthorized,  to  form 
A  wild  conjecture  how  they  shall  appear. 


POEMi.  169 

No  !  when  the  Lord,  their  Righteousness  and  Hope, 
Returns  to  break  the  slumber  of  the  tomb, 

Then  shall  their  glory  reach  its  brilliant  scope, 
And  triumph  in  its  amaranthine  bloom  ! 

1817. 


ADORATION. 

Almighty  One  !  before  whose  eye,  unrolled 

From  everlasting,  lies  the  map  of  man, 

And  the  whole  volume  of  his  history  ! 

We,  Time's  frail  children,  but  the  destined  heirs 

Of  thine  eternity,  invoke  thy  name 

With  fear  and  trembling.     To  thy  throne  we  come, 

Where  majesty,  with  uncreated  ray, 

Mingles  with  mercy  in  its  loveliest  form, 

And  awes  our  bold  approach. 

Thee  we  adore, 
O'erwhelming  Being!    as  the  first  and  last, 
Author,  supporter,  and  consummate  end 
Of  all  existence  !   intellectual  source 
Of  the  whole  worlds  of  matter  and  of  mind ! 
Sovereign  disposer,  architect  sublime, 
And  owner  of  the  glorious  universe  ! 
High  legislator  of  the  human  soul ! 
Its  constant  witness,  and  its  righteous  judge  ! 
Our  eyes  are  dazzled  by  thy  glory's  blaze  ; 
15 


170  POEMS. 

Our  faculties  confounded  in  the  vast 

Of  thine  immensity.     Our  fancy  faints, 

And  fails  to  summon  worthy  thoughts  to  thee. 

Without  the  aid  thy  holy  Word  supplies, 

Our  understanding  wanders  without  rest ! 

Without  the  energy  thy  Spirit  gives, 

Our  weak  affections  slumber  in  their  chains  ! 

Without  the  intercession  of  thy  Son, 

Our  guilty  conscience  shrinks  beneath  thy  frown  ! 

But  with  thy  Son,  thy  Spirit,  and  thy  Word, 

The  way,  and  life,  and  light,  we  venture  near, 

And  touch  the  outstretched  sceptre  of  thy  grace, 

And  feel  the  thrill  of  love  and  ecstasy, 

The  peace  of  pardon  and  the  bliss  of  hope, 

Before  unfelt,  unknown ! 

Thou  art  our  all ! 
God  ever  blessed,  ever  pure  and  good, 
And  we  are  thine  forever.     O  !  for  faith 
To  fix  our  wavering  thoughts,  exalting  still 
Our  high  conceptions  of  thy  character  ! 
To  calm  all  fear,  reanimate  all  hope, 
And  fill,  and  ravish,  and  inflame  our  hearts 
With  love  and  trust  perpetual  as  thy  praise  ! 
1824. 


/ 


POEMS.  171 


PLEASURES    OF    RETIREMENT. 


But  grant  me  still  a  friend  in  my  retreat, 
Whom  I  may  whisper— Solitude  is  sweet. 

Cowper. 

Elsewhere  the  mind  in  every  age  has  roved, 
Than  where  the  public  cares  their  train  disclos 

To  thy  sweet  shades,  by  Wisdom  most  beloved, 
O  Solitude  !  to  find  serene  repose. 

Disturbed  by  no  ill-timed  intrusions  there ; 

Left  to  enjoy  what  nothing  else  can  give, 
The  sweets  of  Friendship,  without  cankering  care, 

And  in  the  presence  that  it  loves,  to  live. 

Contempt  and  Discord  here  together  cease, 
And  softened  Sorrow  finds  her  pensive  hours ; 

And  smiling  Innocence  is  linked  with  Peace, 

Mid  vales,   and  streams,  and  songs,  and   shady 
bowers. 

Sweet  Solitude  !  how  amiable  thou ! 

Nurse  of  the  virtuous  Smile  and  tender  Tear; 
Truth,  Wisdom,  Friendship,  at  thine  altar  bow, 

And  own  that  happiness  is  only  here  ! 
1524. 


172  POEMS. 


BANKS    OF    THE     BUFFALO. 

I. 

What    spirit   of  peace    in  this   sweet  landscape 
dwells  ? 
Still  is  thy  stream  of  silver,  Buffalo  ! 
Save  where  in  softest  undulation  swells 
Thy  living  bosom,  moving  to  and  fro, 
The  shadowy  masses  that  appear  below, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  faithful  breast ; 

And  trembling  there  is  seen  the  horizon's  glow, 
And  broken  clouds  rolled  far  along  the  west, 
In  which  the  glorious  sun  wraps  him  and  sinks  to 
rest. 

II. 
O,  at  this  mild  and  melancholy  hour, 

Along  thy  winding  banks  I  love  to  stray, 
To  catch  the  sweetly  tranquillizing  power, 
And  yield  my  soul  to  meditation's  sway. — 
Stay  yet  awhile,  ye  lovely  landscapes,  stay, 
That  I  once  more  upon  your  charms  may  gaze, 

In  the  soft  mellow  light  of  closing  day — 
More  beautiful  than  is  the  noontide  blaze, 
Or  morning's  dazzling  beam,  or  evening's  shadowy 
haze. 

III. 
Vain  wish !  for  in  the  horizon's  distant  verge, 

I  mark  the  mist  of  twilight  stealing  on ; 
And  busy  labor's  ever-sounding  surge 


POEMS.  173 

Sinks  all  around.     The  daily  task  is  done. 
To  his  loved  home  the  laborer  is  gone ; 
And  even  the  traveller's  step  is  heard  no  more 
On  bridge, or  bank,  or  sand,  or  pebble  stone ; 
And  scarce  distinguishable  is  the  roar 
Of  Erie's  restless  wave,  slow  dashing  on  the  shore. 

IV. 

O,  'tis  not  given  to  mortal  man  to  stop 

The  steady  roll  of  Time's  eternal  wheel, 
Save  when  to  give  a  more  extended  scope 

To  Heaven's  high  purpose,  and  that  man  might 

feel 
The  presence  of  that  great  Invisible, 
Whose  dread  omnipotence  he  dared  deny ; 

And  stamp  with  Heaven's  inimitable  seal, 
The  volume  of  celestial  prophecy ; — 
The  sun  o'er  Gibeon's  towers  hung  blazing  in  the 
sky. 

V. 
One  only  pause,  an  awful  pause  !  since  earth 

Rose  into  light,  and  the  dread  march  began, 
Which  ends  not  till  creation's  second  birth 
Is  known  of  thee,  majestic  orb  !  by  man. 
But  human  intellect  may  dimly  scan 
These  mighty  workings  of  the  Eternal  Mind; 
And  some  there  be,  forgetful  of  their  span, 
Who  question  miracles.     How  vainly  blind 
To  those  illustrious  ends  for  which  they  were  de- 
signed ! 
15* 


174  POEMS. 

VI. 

Man  would  not  be  a  sceptic,  for  the  love 
Of  dim  and  drear  uncertainty  alone ; 

Nor  yet  that  he  might  proudly  soar  above 

The  herd  of  vulgar  minds,  and  plant  his  throne 
Where  they  might  bow  in  dazzled  awe,  and  own 

Him  as  a  God  in  science  and  in  power : 

For  doubt  is  misery  !    And  who  hath  not  known 

That  other  cause  than  science  rules  the  hour, 
When  man  begins  to  doubt  of  revelation's  dower  ! 

VII. 

*  A  violation  of  the  eternal  laws 
'  Of  nature,'  thus  an  infidel  defines 

A  miracle  ;  and  then  profoundly  draws 
An  argument  in  the  succeeding  lines, 
From  his  own  definition ;  undermines, 

By  process  brief  of  verbal  sophistry, 
Not  only  our  belief  in  them  as  signs 

Of  the  unseen  attesting  Deity, 
But  even  our  faith  in  their  bare  possibility. 

VIII. 

1  For  we  by  uniform  experience  know,' 

Such  is  his  reasoning,  '  that  the  laws  arranged 
'  To  govern  nature,  change  not.     And  if  so, 

*  'Tis  fairly  argued  they  were  never  changed. 

*  Men  may  have  thought  so.     They  might  be 

deranged, 
'  Or  duped  by  some  acute  impostor's  plan  • 


POEMS.  175 

'And  thus  the  dark-wove  fallacy  have  ranged. 
'  And  proof  is  ample  that  imposture  can 
•  Usurp  dominion  o'er  the  faith  and  life  of  man. 

IX. 

*  Must  man  give  credence  to  each  ghostly  tale 

•  Which  Superstition  to  her  dupes  hath  told  ? 
'  Must  he  resign  his  reason  to  the  gale 

'  That  swept  to  fatal  shores  his  bark  of  old  ? 

'Priests,  politicians,  raised  from  lust  of  gold; 
'  Ere  yet  the  compass  of  philosophy 

'  Taught  him  to   steer  where   Truth   waits  to 
unfold 

•  Her  ample  treasures  to  her  votary, 
Uninjured  by  the  sword,  or  dread  Auto  da  Fe.' 


X. 

But  pause,  proud  sophist !     Tell  me,  where  wert 
thou, 
When  the  foundations  of  the  earth  were  laid  ? 
Whence  sprung  the  harmonious  universe  ?      And 
how 
Arose  the  order,  nature  since  obeyed  ? 
Question  thine  own  experience.      Will  its  aid 
Throw  light  upon  the  dark  of  ancient  years  ? 
Was  there  no  miracle  when  man  was  made, 
And  earth,  and  sea,  and  yonder  glorious  spheres? 
Or  is  creation,  then,  what  every  day  appears  ? 


176  POEMS. 

XI. 

Know  there  have  been,  even  on  this  little  earth, 

(The  proofs  irrefragable  lie  around,) 
Such  marvels  wrought  even  in  creation's  birth, 
As  our  short-lived  experience  must  confound. 
And    was   the  mighty   Worker's  hand    thence 
bound  ? 
O  thou,  that  limitest  Almighty  Love, 

How  canst  thou  say  no  reasons  can  be  found, 
In  fallen  man's  deep  wretchedness,  to  move 
That   mighty  Hand    once  more,  to  raise  the  soul 
above  ? 

XII. 

Vain-glorious  mortal !  base  immortal !  clay 

With  spirit  in  alliance  !  know  thy  span. 
Ere  thine  own  shadowy  life  shall  flit  away, 

And  earth  reclaim  thee,  know  thyself  a  man. 

And  knowing  this,  affect  not  thus  to  scan 
The  infinitude  of  thy  Creator's  ways  ; 

And  say  what  He  has  done,  will  do,  or  can, 
For  the  redemption  of  a  dying  race. — 
Turn,  turn,  and  sun  thy  soul  in  truth's  immortal 
blaze. 

XIII. 

Though  sophistry  must  ever  move  the  scorn 
Of  man,  as  man,  with  vigorous  reason  blest ; 

Yet  tenderer  thoughts  and  sentiments  are  born 
Of  Charity  within  the  Christian's  breast. 
For  well  he  knows  the  cause  of  thy  unrest — 


POEMS.  177 

Why  thou  canst  not  believe  the  Bible  true  : — 

Since  sanctjty,  the  seal  by  Heaven  impressed, 
Around  its  pagss  sheds  a  bright  halo, 
That  shows  the  sinner's  shame,  and  sin's  tremen- 
dous due. 

XIV. 
And  therefore  is  his  pity  stirred  for  thee, 
Sceptic,  or  scorner,  sophist,  or  savan ! 
He  knows  thy  present  inward  misery, — 
Ay,  from  thyself  conceal  it,  if  ye  can  ! 
How  often  hast  thou  groaned  beneath  the  ban 
Of  thine  own  conscience,  till  the  wish  arose, 

That  thou  wert  any  other  thing  than  Man! 
So  thou  mightst  'scape  the  agonizing  throes 
That  wring  thy  bosom  now,  and  haunt  life's  fearful 
close. 

XV. 

Yet  wilt  thou  hide  repentance  from  thine  eyes, 

And  madly  plunge  into  the  crowd  again ; 
As  if  to  lull  the  worm  that  never  dies, 

And  stifle,  rf  not  quench,  thy  spirit's  pain. 

Attempt,  alas,  preposterous  and  vain ! 
The  hour  of  recollection  must  arrive, 

When  Conscience  will  assert  her  dreaded  reign  ; 
And  thou  in  vain  against  her  voice  shalt  strive, 
And  Truth,  resisted  long,  shall  fearfully  revive. 

XVI. 

But  thou  wilt  still,  perhaps,  thyself  deceive — 
Nor  is,  alas,  such  self-deception  rare ! 


178  poi-.ms. 

And  say  thou  icouldst  indeed  the  truth  believe, 
But  to  believe  the  Bible  must  despair — 
That  credibility  is  wanting  there, 
And  Reason  holds  thee  back  in  doubt  or  scorn. — 
Yes,  thou  wouldst  follow  Truth,  didst  thou  but 
dare  ! 
But  thou  hast  not  the  moral  courage  born 
Of  a  pure  heart !  and  hence  dost  wander  on  forlorn. 

XVII. 
O,  first  of  all,  be  honest  with  thyself! 

Thy  keel  hath  struck  upon  a  hidden  reef — 
The  love  of  pleasure,  power,  distinction,  pelf, 
O'ermasters  thee — holds  thee  in  unbelief! 
Thou  wouldst  love  Truth,  too ;  but  she  is  not 
chief 
In  thine  affections,  and  her  voice  is  drowned 
Amidst  thy  bosom's  uproar  !     What  relief 
From  aught  but  true  Repentance  can  be  found, 
Though  evidence  be  poured  in  noonday  blaze  around? 

XVIII. 

And  there  is  evidence  !     That  very  Book, 

So   wronged,    and   spurned,  and  garbled,  and 
belied, 
Hath  witnesses  so  strong,  that  they  have  shook 

Thy  soul  at  times,  in  spite  of  all  its  pride. 

Let  once  the  character  of  Jesus  glide 
Across  thy  thoughts  in  beauty  all  divine  ! — 

Forsaking  Him,  hast  thou  a  safer  ffuide  ?  — 


\ 


POEMS.  179 

'  Reason.' — Whose  reason, whose  ? — Alas  for  thine, 
Which  hath  so  widely  erred  from  Truth's  unerring 
line  ! 

XIX. 
Turn  !  and  with  tears  of  penitence  bedew 

The  bitter  source  of  doubt  within  thy  breast ! 

Guilt  makes  the  sceptic  !   clouds  the  mental 

view; 

Robs  the  palled  heart  of  that  delightful  zest 

Of  Virtue,  without  which  the  soul,  unblest, 

Wanders  from  Truth's  eternal  track  of  light, 

Unmindful  whither,  wildering  after  rest : 
For  who,  when  conscious  guilt  appalled  his  sight, 
But  shuddered  at   himself,  and  shrunk  back  into 
night ! 

XX. 

I  would  not  be  a  sceptic  ! — doomed  to  float 

And  toss  on  Doubt's  dread  ocean  all  my  days ; 
From  the  calm  bay  of  Confidence  remote ; 
Shrouded  in  sullen,  dim,  disastrous  haze, 
Illumined  only  by  the  frequent  blaze 
Of  signal  guns,  which  bear  along  the  deep, 
Report   of  fate. — Tempt   not   such   dangerous 
ways ! 
O,  how  can  life's  frail  bark  her  balance  keep, 
Or  Reason  hold  the   helm,  when   Passion's  whirl- 
winds sweep  ? 


ISO  POEMS. 

XXI. 

Nor  yet  would  I  be  credulous,  nor  think 

That  every  light  which  gleams  along  the  sea, 
Is  safety's  beacon.     Rather  let  me  sink 

In  the  dark  ocean  of  Uncertainty  ! 

O,  from  those  fetters  be  my  spirit  free, 
Which  Superstition  binds  on  shipwrecked  man  ' 

There  is  one  star  that  streams  o'er  Calvary — 
A  changeless  one  !  whose  steady  lustre  can 
Guide   o'er   this   desert   world   Time's    wandering 
caravan ! 

XXII. 

Star  of  the  soul !  how  sweetly  dost  thou  shine  ' 

Thine  is  no  dazzling  or  deceitful  ray ; 
Through  every  cloud  thy  radiance,  all  divine, 

Lights  earth's  dark   pilgrims  on  their  heaven- 
ward way. 

Not  sweeter  doth  the  dawning  light  of  day 
The  night-worn  wanderer's  weary  eye  accost; 

Not  dearer  shines,  high  o'er  the  billowy  spray, 
The  polar  beam  to  seamen  tempest  tossed, 
Than  shines  salvation's  beam,  unto  the  sinner  lost ! — 


XXIII. 

But  1  have  wandered,  in  these  musings  cast, 
Far  from  the  village,  and  the  chill  dews  warn 

Me  to  my  home.     The  darkness  thickens  fast, 
And  gathering  clouds  obscure  the  moon's  pale 
horn. 


toems.  181 

Yet  though  of  her  soft  silvery  lustre  shorn, 
Mid  yon  moored  shipping  twinkling  tapers  wake, 
To  cheer  the  deepening  gloom ;  and  until  morn 
Upon  the  sailor's  wishful  eye  shall  break, 
Yon  beacon  tower*  shall  gleam  across  the  darkened 
lake. 
Buffalo,  May  1,  1824. 


VISIT    TO    MY    NATIVE    PLACE. 

I  have  come  to  the  land  where  my  being  sprung, 

And  in  earliest  boyhood  rose ; 
I  have  come  to  the  spot  where  my  mother  sung, 

My  infancy  to  repose. 

I  have  seen  the  house  where  my  father  dwelt, 

Where  my  memory  first  began  ; 
And  the  thoughts  that  were  then  so  deeply  felt, 

Afresh  o'er  my  bosom  ran. 

Fourteen  summers  their  suns  have  shed, 

Since  this  spot  was  left  behind ; 
Fourteen  years  of  my  life  have  fled, 

And,  O  !  what  a  change  I  find  ! 

Now,  when  returned  to  my  natal  soil, 
I  survey  each  much-loved  scene  ; 

*  The  Light  House,  on  the  pier  that  forms  the  harbor 
16 


182  POEMS. 

Time  has  been  here  with  his  wonted  spoil ; 
It  is  not  as  it  once  hath  been  ! 

I  have  found  the  rocks  where  my  childhood  roved, 

Still  lifting  their  foreheads  gray  ; 
But  where  are  the  bowers  that  my  childhood  loved  ? 

They  are  withered  all  away  ! 

I  have  found  the  homes  where  my  grandsires  dwelt, 
Where  in  prayer  to  God  they  kneeled ; 

But  where  are  the  forms  that  within  them  knelt  ? 
— In  the  deep,  dark  tomb  concealed  ! 

Oft  do  I  muse  on  the  days  that  are  past, 

As  I  tread  these  dear  scenes  o'er  ; 
And  think — this  visit,  perhaps  the  last- 

I  shall  gaze  on  them  no  more  ! 

I  must  leave  my  loved  ancestral  home, 

And  my  infant  brother's  grave  ; 
And  far  in  the  rising  West  must  roam, 

The  lost  to  seek  and  save. 

And  the  spot  where  my  father  and  mother  sleep, 

And  a  sister  forever  dear  ; 
1  must  pass — and  I  may  not  pause  to  weep, 

Nor  raise  my  tombstone  near. 

I  must  haste  where  the  waters  of  Erie  roll, 

And  his  torrents  in  thunder  fall ; 
I  must  go  in  the  sadness  of  my  soul, 

For  it  is  my  Savior's  call. 


/ 


POEMS.  183 

But  vanish,  ye  visions  of  sombre  hue  ! 

For  ye  veil  that  Savior's  love ; 
Far  other  visions  demand  my  view, 

And  bless  me  from  above. 

Have  I  not  gazed  on  the  brilliant  beams 
That  break  from  his  Holy  Place  ? 

Have  I  not  drank  of  the  living  streams 
Of  his  o'erflowing  grace  ? 

Has  not  his  Spirit's  reviving  breath 
Breathed  o'er  my  soul  the  while  ? 

And  over  my  kindred  who  sleep  in  death, 
Did  not  his  mercy  smile  ? 

And  in  many  more  that  still  survive, 

Hath  he  not  salvation  wrought  ? 
Are  they  not  now  unto  God  alive — 

And  O,  shall  I  praise  him  not  ? 

Hath  he  not  blessed  me  in  every  place, 

That  I  have  so  lately  viewed  ? 
And  can  I  receive  this  excess  of  grace, 

Unglowing  with  gratitude  ? 

I  cannot !    This  heart  which  in  fulness  swells, 
Shall  its  soft  thanksgivings  pour  ; 

And  Affection's  tide,  which  within  it  wells, 
Shall  gush  in  its  freshness  o'er ! 
******* 

Farewell,  ye  scenes  of  my  native  land  ! 
Though  ye  still  are  dear  to  me ; 


184  POEMS. 

Your  suns  are  as  bright,  and  your  gales  as  bland, 
As  in  joyous  infancy. 

Farewell,  ye  friends  of  my  early  youth ! 

Ye  are  twined  around  my  heart; 
And,  linked  in  the  bonds  of  eternal  truth, 

Our  spirits  can  never  part. 

Bowing  now  to  our  Father's  will, 

I  haste  to  a  distant  shore ; 
But  He  who  hath  loved  us,  will  love  us  still, 

Though  on  earth  we  meet  no  more. 

On  our  spirits  his  peace  He'll  shed, 

Like  Hermon's  holy  dew  ; 
And  a  hope  like  the  star  which  the  Magi  led, 

To  guide  us  our  journey  through. 

And  should  our  way  be  dark  or  bright, 

On  him  we  may  still  depend ; 
A  cloud  by  day,  and  a  fire  by  night, 

Till  we  reach  our  journey's  end. 

And  he  will  uphold  the  fainting  head, 
When  Death's  cold  hand  is  near ; — 

And  when  we  are  laid  to  our  kindred  dead, 
And  those  that  in  life  were  dear — 

He  will  watch  over  our  couch  of  rest 

Till  the  mom  eternal  rise, 
And  in  immortality  we  are  drest, 

For  communion  in  the  skies. 
New  London,  Conn.,  May  20,  1824 


} 


POEMS.  185 


THE  CHURCH    OF    GOD. 

O,  can  the  Moral  Muse  forget 

That  years  are  stealing  life  away  ; 
That  those  who  list  enraptured  yet 

To  the  soft  breathings  of  her  lay, 

Are  on  the  torrent  of  decay, 
Hurried  unconsciously  along  ; 

And,  ah  !  to-morrow  where  are  they, 
And  where  is  she  who  raised  the  song  ? 

Can  she  forget  ?     Ah,  yes,  she  may  ! 

How  oft,  when  lulled  m  Fancy's  bowers, 
Day  dreams  have  held  their  aery  sway, 

And  robed  the  changeful  earth  in  flowers — 

Still  blooming  on  througb  suns  and  showers, 
Still  shedding  forth  their  perfumed  breath — 

Even  while  around  the  tempest  lowers, 
And  roars  the  cataract  of  Death  ! 

Enchanted  earth  !   enchanted  earth  ! 

What  is  the  magic  of  thy  spell, 
That  beings  of  immortal  birth 

Should  love  thy  very  wreck  so  well ' 

When  conscious  that  the  coming  swell 
Of  Time's  chill  wave  will  sternly  sweep 

O'er  every  form  of  life. — A  knell ! — 
Eternity  its  own  will  keep. 
16* 


18G 


FOEMS. 

Muse  of  Eternity  !  awake  ! 

The  wind  of  Death  is  on  the  lyre  ! 
O,  when  thy  dream  of  earth  shall  break, 

To  heavenly  heights  shalt  thou  aspire ; 

Shalt  glance  around  an  eye  of  fire, 
From  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea, 

On  all  the  objects  of  desire, 
Which  were,  or  are,  or  are  to  be ! 

Earth's  panorama ; — they  shall  pass, 
As  once  before  the  Savior's  e}re ; 

All,  all  within  Time's  measured  glass, 
Wealth,  pleasure,  fame,  authority ; — 
All  that  is  doomed  with  man  to  die, 

For  one  offence  with  him  accurst ; 
Heirs,  not  of  his  eternity, 

But  of  his  vanity  and  dust. 

And,  O,  shall  man  presume  to  rest 
In  this  unstable,  turbid  state  ? 

On  the  wild  wave  to  build  his  nest, 
The  victim  and  the  sport  of  fate  ! — 
Is  there  no  ark,  whose  steady  weight 

May  breast  the  ocean  billow's  shock  ; 
And  safely  bear  its  precious  freight 

To  rest  on  Heaven's  eternal  Rock  ? 

There  is  !    To  Faith's  unclouded  eyes, 
See,  holding  on  her  course  sublime, 

An  ark,  the  Church  of  God,  arise, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  wrecks  of  Time  ! 


POEMS.  187 

Millions  from  every  coast  and  clime, 

Charmed  by  her  welcome,  haste  on  board ; 

Hark  !  how  they  swell  in  hallowed  chime, 
Glory  to  Christ,  our  Savior  Lord  ! 
Buffalo,  Sept.  1824. 


TO    SOPHRONA. 


AN    ACROSTIC. 


S  hall  youth  and  beauty  fade  away  and  die, 

0  r  shrink  to  nothing  in  your  Maker's  eye  ? 

P  erish  the  spell  that  to  this  world  would  bind, 

H  arden  the  conscience,  and  the  judgment  blind. 

R  eason  !  Religion  '  come  and  break  the  sway 

Of  every  object  doomed  to  pass  away. 

N  o  real  satisfaction  they  afford, 

A  nd  yet  the  heart  they  sever  from  its  rightful  Lord. 

W  hy  should  the  soul,  born  for  eternity, 

1  nfatuated  with  the  present  be  ? 

L  o  !  fairer  scenes  and  purer  pleasures  rise, 
B  right  in  perspective,  far  above  the  skies. 
U  nfading  youth  and  beauty  nourish  there, 
Rise,  dear  Sophrona,  rise!  that  fadeless  glory  share. 
1820. 


188  POEMS. 


TO    THE    MOON. 


Beautiful  Moon  !    Thou  lookest  down, 

So  sweetly  pure,  so  calmly  bright, 
Thy  smile  of  love  appears  to  crown 

Each  living  thing  beneath  thy  light. 

What  pure  and  exquisite  delight 
To  many  a  heart  thy  smile  is  raying — 

Sweet  smile  !     I  cannot  deem  it  night, 
While  on  my  brow  so  brightly  playing. 

Yet,  lovely  orb  !  didst  thou  enshrine 

A  spirit  of  superior  mould  ; 
Who  in  a  circuit  vast  as  thine, 

Round  the  whole  earth,  could,  as  he  rolled, 

Thence  with  discerning  eye  behold 
All  on  our  guilty  planet  passing ; 

How  would  his  heart  turn  deadly  cold, 
To  see  the  crimes  and  woes  amassing ! 

O,  there  are  those  who  wildly  talk 

Of  chaste  Diana's  vestal  fires ; 
Mere  apes  of  sentiment !  who  mock 

That  purity  the  world  admires  ; 

Who  when  the  end  they  seek  requires 
A  veil  to  hide  thy  virgin  splendor ; 

Unblushing  cant  of  pure  desires 
Woke  in  thy  beam  so  chaste  and  tender. 


189 


I 


Yet  thou  art  pure  and  innocent, 

Fair  orb  !  though  many  a  passion  vile, 
In  human  bosoms,  darkly  blent, 

Hath  fed  upon  thy  lovely  smile. 

O,  there  are  eyes  that  weep  the  while 
They  gaze  upon  thy  cloudless  beauty, 

O'er  vows  by  moonlight  made  in  guile, 
To  draw  them  from  the  path  of  duty  ! 

But  there  are  other,  dearer  scenes, 

Earth's  beauteous  regent !  known  to  thee } 
Where  no  base  passion  intervenes, 

To  taint  their  spotless  purity. 

As  when  thou  Jesse's  son  didst  see 
Upon  thy  train  of  radiance  gazing ; 

In  wrapt  adoring  ecstasy 
Thine  infinite  Creator  praising. 

And  oft,  from  thy  cerulean  sphere, 

Thou  lookest  down  with  placid  charm 
On  youthful  forms  to  friendship  dear, 

At  leisure  walking,  arm  in  arm ; 

While  sympathies  so  pure  and  warm, 
To  heavenly  themes  their  spirits  tuning ; 

Angels  might  stoop  without  alarm, 
And  listen  to  their  high  communing. 

And  they  do  listen  ! — though  unknown 
To  those  around  whose  path  they  move, 

Seraphs  who  stand  before  the  Throne, 
And  there  their  high  allegiance  prove ; 


190 


Commission  in  the  world  above, 
From  the  Eternal  Word  receiving, 

Descend  on  ministries  of  love, 
To  watch  the  steps  of  his  believing. 

And  well  they  watch,  those  guardian  choirs ! 

To  ward  the  blow  with  danger  woke  : — 
When  o'er  Rangoon's  refulgent  spires, 

The  cloud  of  war  in  thunder  broke  ; 

When  fled  her  chiefs  mid  fire  and  smoke, 
Their  cruelty  with  terror  blending  ; 

Who  saved  God's  servants  from  the  stroke 
Of  glittering  steel  above  impending  ?* 

Sweet  image  of  the  dazzling  sun  ! 

Thou  givest  us  a  softened  light ; 
And  art  an  emblem  fair  of  One, 

Who  standeth  in  the  Father's  sight, 

The  object  of  supreme  delight, 
The  glory  of  his  grace  reflecting, 

Far  down  on  man's  deep  moral  night 
His  wandering  feet  to  Heaven  directing. 

O,  once  o'er  sad  Gethsemane 

Thy  beams  of  beauty  softly  strayed ; 

In  dimness  hovering  there  to  see 
The  Lord  of  life  to  death  betrayed  : 

*  See  the  narrative  of  the  almost  miraculous  escape  of 
Messrs.  Wade  and  Hough,  American  missionaries  to  Rangoon, 
on  the  occasion  here  alluded  to,  in  the  Am.  Bap.  Magazine  for 
December,  1824. 


poems.  191 

The  blood  drops  gushing  as  he  prayed, 
On  the  cold  earth  where  he  was  kneeling; 

With  a  world's  guilt  upon  him  laid, 
And  agony  past  human  feeling ! 

And  thou,  as  full,  as  bright,  as  now, 

Upon  the  sepulchre  didst  gleam ; 
Where  stood  the  guards  with  gloomy  brow, 

And  armor  flashing  in  thy  beam; 

Thou  sawest  the  awful  lightnings  stream, 
As  the  celestial  form  descended ; 

And  earth  convulsed  with  awe  supreme, 
As  from  the  tomb  God's  Son  ascended. 

Beautiful  orb  !  in  thy  blue  path, 

Star-paved,  a  pilgrim  sweet  and  lone ; 
Even  till  the  final  day  of  wrath, 

From  age  to  age  thou  travellest  on. 

Still  shine  on  me  as  thou  hast  shone, 
Unclouded  Moon  !  until  my  spirit 

A  purer  glory  from  the  throne 
Of  God — my  God, — the  Lamb  !   inherit. 

December  1,  1824. 


192  toems. 


THE    APOSTATE. 


The  current  of  peace  and  enjoyment  has  fled, 
Its  channel  in  emptiness  winding  ; 

And  the  hopes  that  once  bloomed  on  its  margin  are 
dead, 
Their  wonted  support  not  finding. 

For  the  Spirit  of  truth  has  abandoned  his  soul, 
And  the  breathings  of  love  departed ; 

And  sin  has  usurped  the  supreme  control, 
And  the  horrors  of  guilt  imparted. 
1821. 


THE    DYING    SISTER. 

Hast  thou  e'er  lost  a  sister?  one  who  loved 

Thee  with  a  love  most  cordial  and  most  pure ; 
One  whose  attachment  had  been  often  proved, 

And  found  through  every  trial  to  endure ; — 
A  tie  affliction  only  made  more  sure, 

More  closely  clinging  round  the  suffering  breast : 
O,  that  from  Death's  stern  grasp  it  could  secure  ! 

Hast  thou  seen  such  a  one,  with  pain  opprest, 
Languish  upon  her  couch,  and  vainly  seek  for  rest  ? 


POEMS.  193 

Hast  thou  with  me  gazed  on  that  delicate  form, 

Now  slowly  yielding  to  the  waste  of  death  ? 
Hast  thou  bent  o'er,  with  fond  affection  warm, 

Her  cold,  damp  brow,  and  watched  each  gasp 
for  breath  ? 
And  hast  thou  thought,  as  she  would  feebly  writhe, 

The  child  of  lingering  death  !  in  anguish  keen, 
The  grasp  of  the  all-conquering  foe  beneath, 

That  there  was  something  in  that  solemn  scene, 
Of  deeper  import  far,  which  tells  of  worlds  unseen  ? 

Yet  though  so  trying  be  that  solemn  hour, 

Know  that  Religion  can  relief  impart; 
Through  the  deep  gloom  her  heavenly  radiance 
pour, 

And  soothe  to  soft  repose  the  aching  heart ; 
Aye,  pluck  the  sting  from  sorrow's  venomed  dart, 

And  teach  the  dim  and  closing  eye  to  smile, 
Brilliant  in  death  !   with  sorrowing  friends  to  part, 

Submissive,  joyful !  as  sweet  Hope,  the  while, 
Points  to  a  blissful  rest  from  mortal  pain  and  toil. 

O,  I  have  felt  thy  power,  Christianity  ! 

Daughter  of  Heaven  !  and  bow  before  the  throne 
Of  Him  whose  image  beams  so  bright  in  thee ; 
By  that  bright  image  thy  descent  is  knowTn  ! 
Still  shine  on  me,  fair  Light!  as  thou  hast  shone, 
While  threading  still  this    world's    dark  wil- 
derness ; 
17 


194  POEMS. 

And  kindle  still  that  elevated  tone 

Of  meek  and  unrepining  thankfulness, 
Which  prompts  me  now  the  Hand  that  chastens  me 
to  bless ! 
1821. 


DEATH    OF  MIDSHIPMAN    ROBERT   B.  COFFIN, 

(of  the  u.  s.  ship  of  war  franklin,) 

Who,  with  Lieutenant  James  A.  Perry,  and  seven  others,  was 
drowned  on  the  coast  of  Chili,  South  America,  in  1822. 

Brightly  the  morn  breaks  o'er  the  mountain  steep, 
The  blue  mist  sleeps  on  Chili's  distant  shore ; 

The  Franklin  rides  majestic  on  the  deep, 

Which  breaks  around  her  with  incessant  roar. 

The  boat  is  launched,  and  o'er  the  rolling  sea, 
Nine  gallant  youths,  Quintera  !  seek  thy  vales ; 

The  dash  of  oars  gives  back  their  song  of  glee, 
And  echoes  far  upon  the  sounding  gales. 

No  woman's  heart  is  there  !     With  giant  arm, 
On   through     the    wildly    heaving     surge   they 
sweep  : — 

But  see,  yon  mountain  billow,  like  a  storm, 

Bursts  o'er  the  bark,  and  whelms  them  in  the  deep. 


1 


POEMS.  195 

Perry  !  where  art  thou  ?  Through  the  surf  and  foam, 
I  see,  I  see  him  vainly  strive  to  save 

His  hapless  comrades — till  at  length  o'ercome, 
They  sink  in  death  beneath  the  dashing  wave. 

Grief-struck  he  turns  away ;  in  fretted  pride 
Around  him  roars  the  tumult  of  the  sea; 

But,  hark  !  a  shout  comes  o'er  the  foaming  tide ; 
That  shout,  O  gallant  Coffin  !  comes  from  thee. 

'Tis  gone  ! — Again  above  the  rush  and  roar 
Of  the  mad  waves,  that  voice  has  burst  its  way ; 

*  Courage  !  brave  Perry — see,  we  near  the  shore.' 

1  Courage  !     now,    Coffin,  dash   through   yonder 
spray.' 

The  suffering  heroes  thus  with  cheers  sustain 
The  strength  that  buffets  the  impetuous  wave ; 

Tost  back,  drenched  deep,  still  every  nerve  they 
strain 
Life  from  the  black  and  billowy  deep  to  save. 

But  fainter  now  the  cheering  voice  is  heard, 
And  fainter  still,  and  fainter.     It  has  ceased  ! 

From  Coffin's  eye  his  friend  has  disappeared, 
Gone  to  his  long,  unbroken,  dreamless  rest! 

Sick  grows  his  heart,  and  paralyzed  his  arm ; 
*  Why  should  I  strive  when  Perry  is  no  more  ? 

*  My  sun  is  set,  and  life  has  lost  its  charm — 

*0  brother  !  O  my  mother  !  all  is  o'er.' 


196  POEMS. 

One  anguished  cry  escapes  his  yearning  soul, 
The  words,  half  formed,  are  murmuring  on  his 
breath ; 

High  o'er  his  head  the  rising  billows  roll, — 
His  lifeless  form  floats  on  the  surge  of  death. 

Rushed  the  broad  sun  behind  the  gathering  clouds ; 

The  sea-bird's  shriek  is  heard  along  the  wave  ; 
The  fitful  blast  sings  through  the  Franklin's  shroudp. 

And  dirge-like  moans  o'er  Robert's  early  grave. 
July,  1822. 


ON    THE    SUDDEN    DEATH    OF  A  YOUNG  MAN. 

The  arrow  of  Death  was  on  the  bow, 
And  aimed  full  rightly  to  lay  him  low, 
Yet  little,  I  ween,  did  the  stripling  know 
Of  the  wiles  of  his  last  and  lurking  foe 

To  work  his  early  doom  ; 
And  cheerily  he  went  on  his  way, 
Nor  dreamed  of  his  fastly  closing  day ; 
For  who  could  have  fancied,  when  all  was  gay, 
That  the  setting  sun's  first  rising  ray 

Would  shine  upon  his  tomb  ? 

The  shaft  in  secret  flew  ! — He  fell ! 
'Twas  night  when  we  heard  the  funeral  knell, 
And  we  wept  over  him  whom  we  loved  so  well 
As  we  laid  him  down  in  his  narrow  cell, 


POEMS.  197 

To  moulder  in  the  clay ; 
But,  O,  we  did  not  sorrow  as  those 
O'er  whom  Despair  his  dark  mantle  throws  ; 
For  we  knew,  as  we  witnessed  his  dim  eyes  close, 
That  his  spirit  with  joy  from  the  death-shock  rose 

To  mansions  of  endless  day. 
1821. 


NEW    YEARS    ADDRESS. 
WRITTEN   FOR  THE  COLUMBIAN  CENT1NEL,  JAN.  1,  1822. 

High  on  his  watch-tower,  when  afar 
Dark  Midnight  rolls  his  ebon  car, 
Begemmed  with  stars,  in  silence  deep, 
O'er  half  mankind  involved  in  sleep, 
The  faithful  Centinel  appears, 
Watching  the  steady  flight  of  years, 
If  haply  he  from  each  may  gain 
Some  lessons  worthy  to  retain, 
Ere  they  shall  vanish  from  his  ken, 
And  be  as  though  they  had  not  been. 

The  hours  roll  on — till  robed  in  white, 
Through  eastern  portals  comes  the  light, 
The  virgin  skies  receive  the  dawn 
Blushing,  and  brighten  into  morn. — 
Watchful  he  sees,  and  lifting  high 
His  voice,  afar  he  sends  his  cry  : 
17* 


198  POEMS. 

'  Mortals,  awake  !  the  rising  sun 

•  Proclaims  another  year  begun. 

'  Mortals,  awake  !  awake,  and  hear 

*  The  record  of  the  by-gone  year.' 

Wo  !  wo  !  the  impious  hand  betide, 
That  dares  presumptuous  draw  aside 
That  awful  veil,  the  Only  Wise 
Hangs  o'er  the  secrets  of  the  skies, 
To  shelter  them  from  mortal  eyes. 
Ill  does  it  boot,  with  curious  eye, 
To  scan  a  dark  futurity, 
When  all  we  know  of  things  to  come, 
Is — nothing  !     Why  should  fancy  roam  ? 
To-morrow  boast  not.     Who  shall  say, 
'Twill  dawn  on  him  who  breathes  to-day 
Deep  in  the  dust,  vain  mortal,  hide  ! 
Thy  frailty  own — renounce  thy  pride — 
In  humble  silence  sit  and  hear 
The  lessons  of  the  by-gone  year. 

Placed  on  a  mountain's  height  sublime, 
We  look  adown  the  vale  of  Time, 
Where  various  scenes  successive  rise 
In  retrospect  before  our  eyes  ; 
And  dimly  mid  the  group  is  seen 
The  faded  form  of  England's  Queen. 
No  more  she  blooms  in  youthful  charms, 
Thrust  scornful  from  a.  husband's  arms. 
Accused,  condemned,  degraded,  now, 
Grief  sits  upon  her  care-worn  brow, 


199 


And  vainly  does  she  press  the  claim 
Of  ancient  Brunswick's  royal  name, 
Plundered  of  every  virgin  gem 
That  sparkled  in  her  diadem. 
Ill-fated  Caroline  !  the  tear 
That  pities  fallen  greatness,  here 
Has  dropped,  and  glistens  on  thy  bier  ! 

Hark  !  heard  you  not  the  cannon's  roar 
Echoing  along  the  rocky  shore, 
And  rolling  o'er  the  sullen  wave  ? — 
It  rose  above  Napoleon's  grave  ! 
Ambition  !  from  thy  dizzy  steep, 
Descend  and  linger  here  and  weep. 
Gaze  on  thy  foster-child,  and  own 
How  vain  the  sceptre  and  the  throne 
To  give  enduring  bliss,  and  poor 
Indeed  the  man  that  has  no  more  ! 

Heroes  of  earth,  and  sons  of  fame ! 
Ye  bold  aspirers  to  a  name  ! 
Approach  the  death-bier  !    This  is  he, 
Whose  nod  was  Europe's  destiny — 
Whose  voice  of  thunder,  heard  afar, 
Poured  death  along  the  ranks  of  war — 
Whose  eagle  banner,  wide  unfurled, 
Menaced  destruction  to  the  world. 
What  blood-won  trophies  wreathed  his  brow, 
It  matters  not — behold  him  now 
A  stiffened  corse  !    The  soul  is  gone 
For  judgment  to  the  Eternal  Throne  ! 


200  POEMS. 

Ask  ye  his  doom  ?    Tis  wrapt  in  night. 
Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  do  right  ? 
There  leave  we  him,  and  slowly  turn 
This  lesson  from  his  fate  to  learn  : — 
'  The  grave,  the  coffin,  and  the  shroud, 
*  Await  the  proudest  of  the  proud  : 
'And  better  far  was  Lazarus'  doom, 
'Than  the  rich  man's,  beyond  the  tomb.' 

What  thrilling  voice  is  this  I  hear  ? 

What  clangor  breaks  upon  the  ear  ? 

What  mingling  sounds  come  on  the  breeze  ? 

'Oppression  !'   '  Liberty  !'  and  '  Greece  !' 

Lo  !  mid  the  gloom  that  clouds  the  strife, 

I  see  the  desperate  tug  for  life, 

Where  fiery  youth  and  feeble  age, 

And  noble  patriot  hearts,  engage 

The  Moslem's  strength,  the  Moslem  s  rage, 

And,  glaring  through  the  troubled  skies, 

Bold  Ypsilanti's  banner  flies. 

Rouse,  rouse  thy  valor,  hapless  land  ! 

Dash  thee  against  the  oppressor's  hand, 

And  never  may  the  voice  of  peace 

Rise  but  from  independent  Greece  ! 

Is  it  the  battle's  roar  again 

Comes  echoing  loud  o'er  Darien  ? 

No  !   'tis  the  shout  of  victory 

Reverberating  through  the  sky. 

Brave  Bolivar,  it  is  thy  fame  ! — 

The  South  has  caught  the  patriot  flame, 


POEMS.  201 

And  glorious  deeds  the  stain  efface 
Of  fair  Columbia's  disgrace. 
Her  sons  have  burst  their  galling  chain, 
And  triumphed  o'er  the  arts  of  Spain, 
And,  aided  by  the  Almighty  hand, 
Swept  the  oppressor  from  the  land ! 

Enough  of  scenes  of  war  and  blood — 
As  when  of  old  the  Prophet  stood 
On  Horeb's  mount  before  the  Lord, 
Attentive  to  the  inspiring  word, 
The  tempest  came  with  headlong  course, 
And  the  rocks  rent  beneath  its  force, — 
When  the  rude  earthquake  in  its  birth 
With  strong  concussions  shook  the  earth — 
When  last  the  fire  loud-rushing  came, 
And  wrapt  all  Horeb  in  its  flame — 
4  God  was  not  there!' — so  here  in  vain 
We  seek  him  on  the  ensanguined  plain. 
'Tis  in  the  '  still  small  voice'  we  trace 
The  foosteps  of  the  God  of  Grace. 

America!  my  native  land, 

My  soul  awakes  at  thought  of  thee  ; 
The  Muses  wave  their  magic  wand, 

And  strike  the  lyre  of  Liberty. 

Here  Freedom  holds  her  happy  reign, 
And  equal  laws  her  rights  maintain  ; 
Sweet  Peace  her  dove-like  wing  extends 
O'er  one  wide  family  of  friends ; 


202  toems. 

Plenty  with  golden  horn  appears, 
Scattering  the  fruits  of  bounteous  years ; 
And  Commerce  spreads  her  whitening  sail 
To  catch  the  breath  of  every  gale. 
Here  Art  assiduous  plies  her  tools, 
And  Science  walks  amid  her  schools; 
And  all  combine  the  land  to  bless 
With  wisdom,  worth,  and  happiness. 

O  God  of  Grace  !  how  manifold 
The  blessings  we  receive  from  Thee ! 
Cold  is  the  heart— the  heart  is  cold, 
That  here  can  still  ungrateful  be, 
And  not  with  warm  affection  glow 
To  Him  from  whom  such  blessings  flow. 


WRITTEN    FOR    THE    HAMILTON    RECORDER, 
ARY    1,1823. 

The  sun  had  hid  him  in  the  west, 
The  bell  had  rung  the  hour  of  rest, 
When  the  Recorder  sought  his  room, 
With  cheerful  fire  dispelled  the  gloom, 
Took  up  the  volume  of  the  past, 
And,  reckless  of  the  stores  amassed, 
Turned  to  the  chapter  of  the  year, — 
Saw  that  the  closing  line  was  near, 


POEMS.  203 

Reviewed  the  storied  page,  and  then 
Finished  the  line,  and  dropt  his  pen. 

By  Curiosity  now  led, 
Ask  you  what  in  those  lines  he  read ; 
Ask  you  if  aught  recorded  there 
Be  worthy  of  the  public  care  ? 
Patrons  !  of  this  we  only  say, 
Judge  ye  what  we  before  you  lay. 

Not  yet  the  trump  of  war  is  hushed  ; 
Not  yet  tyrannic  power  is  crushed. 
And  well  ye  know  the  fate  of  Greece, 

Struggling  against  her  ruthless  foes, 
When  scorning  an  inglorious  ease, 

The  might  of  other  days  arose  ; 
Leonidas,  once  more  returned, 
In  gallant  Ypsilanti  burned  ; 
And  such  as  fought  for  Grecia  once, 

At  Marathon  and  Salamis, 
Again  enrolled  themselves  her  sons, 

To  gain  her  long-lost  liberties. 
Then  rose  her  drooping  eye  once  more 
To  Freedom,  as  in  days  of  yore ; 
And  Hope  foretold  a  glorious  peace, 
To  bless  emancipated  Greece. 

—  Sudden  the  iron  tempest  broke  ; 
Her  bravest  reeled  beneath  the  stroke  ; 
And  Scio  sank  !     The  tyrant's  hand 
To  blood  and  pillage  gave  the  land. 


204  POEMS. 

Then  scenes  of  wo  and  death  ensued, 
Such  as  the  tongue  may  never  speak ; 

Read  it  in  wide-spread  solitude  ! 
Behold  it  on  the  orphan's  cheek  ! — 

The  deadly  work  is  done,  and  o'er ; 

But  Scio's  captive  sons  will  smile  no  more  ! 

—  Not  fallen  yet ! — not  fallen  yet ! 

Though  dark  the  day,  and  red  the  strife, 
Thy  sun  of  glory  has  not  set ! 

Thy  gallant  sons  are  yet  in  life, 
O  land  of  heroes  !  and  thy  name, 
Liberty  yet  shall  give  to  fame. — 
But  awful  vengeance  on  thy  foes, 
Red  in  the  dark  horizon  glows ; 
And  soon  the  thunderbolt  of  wrath 
Shall  break  upon  the  Moslem's  path, 
And  fatal  as  the  Siroc's  breath, 
Blast  all  his  guilty  power  in  death. 

Joy  to  the  Cross  !  the  Crescent  wanes ; 

The  night  is  wearing  fast  away  ; 
And  soon  on  Islam's  darkened  fanes, 

Shall  burst  the  radiant  light  of  day ; 
And  rock  and  hill,  and  tower  and  stream, 
Shall  kindle  in  the  ardent  beam. 
That  hallowed  beam,  so  bright  to  bless, 
Is  thine,  O  Sun  of  Righteousness  ! 

O  come  the  time  !  O  come  the  time  ! 
When  demon-wakened  war  shall  cease  ; 


POEMS.  205 

And  Freedom  o'er  each  weary  clime 

Shall  wave  the  olive  branch  of  peace. 
The  very  soul  is  sick,  to  see 
The  mountain  woes  of  anarchy. 

While  Science  spreads  her  light  through  earth, 

While  Arts  are  springing  into  birth ; 

While  Truth  her  torch  is  waving  wide, 

Where'er  the  forms  of  Error  hide; 

While  darkling  Superstition's  flee, 

With  giant-born  Idolatry, 

Before  sweet  Christianity, 

Arrayed  in  youthful  purity, 

Fair  as  the  moon  mid  evening's  blue, 

Bright  as  the  morn  with  sparkling  dew, 

And,  in  her  march  from  coast  to  coast, 

Majestic  as  a  bannered  host ; — 

Let  earth  rejoice,  and  every  shore 

Its  thundering  halleluia  pour! 

Not  yet  the  missionary's  feet 

Have  prest  the  soil  of  every  land ; 
Not  yet  the  tides  of  Mercy  meet, 

A  sea  unbounded  by  a  strand  ! 
Not  yet  the  Bible,  book  of  Heaven  ! 
Boon  beyond  price  to  mortals  given ! 
The  Bible — on  whose  hallowed  page 

Ten  thousand  truths  in  beauty  shine , 
And  still  the  virtuous  heart  engage, 

With  energy  supreme,  divine  ; — 
18 


206  POEMS. 

Not  yet  the  Bible  finds  its  way 
To  all  who  see  the  light  of  day. 
There  is  a  sinner  still  who  feels 
His  need  of  trnth  that  book  reveals ; 
There  is  a  mourner  still  who  knows 
Nought  of  its  solace  for  her  woes  ! 
Ah,  yes !  and  o'er  those  sorrows  deep, 
How  long  shall  Mercy's  angel  weep? 
How  long  shall  her  imploring  voice 

Solicit  aid  from  us  in  vain  ? 
Rise  !  rise  !  be  ours  the  generous  joys 

To  shower  the  Word  of  God  like  rain 
Upon  the  parched  and  barren  soil, 
Till  Earth  with  moral  verdure  smile. 

Not  yet  has  every  nation  known 
The  glories  of  Messiah's  throne  :  — 
Yet  it  must  be  ; — that  kingdom  come, 

As  erst  by  prophecy  foretold  ; 
And  Gentile  converts  welcome  home 

The  chosen  Israel  of  old  ; 
And  both  together  bow  the  knee, 
Redeemer  of  mankind  !  to  thee. 
***** 
Patrons  in  years  !  a  few  more  suns 

Shall  round  this  earthly  sphere  have  rolled  j 
When  hearts  that  beat  with  ardor  once, 

Shall  in  the  grasp  of  Death  be  cold ; 
And  while  in  slumber  they  repose, 
The  stream  of  Time  shall  o'er  them  close. 


POEMS.  207 

Long,  long  may  Heaven  avert  from  you 
The  awful  debt  to  nature  due  ! 
But  when  it  may  no  longer  be, 

And  you  shall  bid  your  sons  farewell, 
O,  may  you  leave  us  peacefully, 

And  go  in  happier  worlds  to  dwell ! 
While  those  who  linger  still  on  earth, 
Cherish  the  memory  of  your  worth. 

Patrons  in  middle  age  !  the  year 

Which  the  Recorder's  pen  hath  traced, 
Is  blotted  o'er  with  many  a  tear, 

And  mortal  friendships  are  effaced. 
Have  ye  not  heard  the  village  bell 
Toll  out  the  sad  funereal  knell  ? 
Hush  !  'tis  the  widow's  secret  wail, 

Rising  from  unknown  depths  of  grief. 
Why  is  her  faded  cheek  so  pale  ? 

Her  orphans — do  they  seek  relief? 
Friends  of  her  youth  !  they  look  to  you ; 
Visit,  console,  relieve,  anew. — 
And  oft,  full  oft,  as  you  return 

From  visiting  the  lowly  cot, 
And  see  your  own  sweet  fireside  burn, 

You*ll  think  how  happier  is  your  lot; 
How  blest  your  own  dear  children  are 
Beneath  their  living  parents'  care  ! 

Patrons  in  youth  !  turn  not  away 
From  grave  remark  on  festal  day  ; 


208  POEMS. 

Such  festal  days  will  soon  be  past — 
Haply  your  eyes  have  seen  the  last ! 
Yet  on  this  thought  we  will  not  dwell- 
Fatrons  in  youth  !  we  wish  you  well. 
May  the  new  year  you've  now  begun, 
Be  rich  in  joy  to  every  one  ; 
In  worth  and  wisdom  all  improve, 
And  bless  you  with  a  Savior's  love  ! 

Patrons  !  one  word,  and  we  have  done- 

TlME  IS  ETERNITY  BEGIN'  ! 


REVIEW    OF    THE    YEAR     1824. 

WRITTEN    AS    A    NEW    YEAR'S    ADDRESS    FOR    THE 
BUFFALO    EMPORIUM,    JAN.   1,  1825. 

I. 

Another  year,  upon  the  rapid  tide 

Of  Time  swept  down  toward  Death's  expand- 
ing bay, 
While  thousands  more  have  sunk  even  at  our  side, 

Patrons  !  we  hail  you  on  this  joyous  day. 

'Tis  meet  that  we  take  up  our  artless  lay, 
And  bid  the  rude  lyre  wake  its  echo  clear; 

First  to  the  great  Preserver  homage  pay, 

Then  kindly  greet  you  with  accustomed  cheer, 

And  wish  you  from  our  heart  a  truly  hafpy  year  ! 


toems.  209 

II. 

Voyagers  upon  the  flood  of  years  ! 
Ere  yet  the  destined  port  appears, 
Ye  may,  perchance,  a  season  rest 
In  the  Emporium  of  the  West. 
Thence  turn  the  eye  of  memory  back, 
O'er  the  past  year's  eventful  track  ; 
And,  glancing  toward  your  final  home, 
Lay  in  new  stores  for  time  to  come. 

III. 

Illicit  have  we  seen  ?     The  deep  blue  sky 

Swelling  in  silent  majesty  ; 

Glowing  beneath  the  beam  of  day , 

Lit  by  the  stars  with  dewy  ray. — 

What  have  we  seen  ?    The  landscape  fair, 

Lake,  village,  wood,  and  green  parterre ; 

A  various  scene  of  magic  power, 

Changing  with  every  sun  and  shower. — 

What  have  we  seen  ?    The  storm  come  forth 

In  Winter  from  the  roaring  north ; 

The  efflorescence  of  the  Spring ; 

The  Summer's  sunshine  lingering; 

The  ripeness  of  the  golden  fruit, 

The  rich  reward  of  Autumn's  suit. 

IV. 

The  triumphs  of  improvement  rise, 
Success  attends  our  enterprise. 
New  ground  is  broke,  and  healthful  Toil 
Treads  with  a  firmer  foot  the  soil, 
18* 


210 


Wipes  his  wet  brow,  and  smiling  stands 
To  view  the  labors  of  his  hands. 
Commerce  new  plumes  her  snowy  wings, 
Flies  o'er  the  seas,  and  gayly  sings ; 
Cleaves  the  canal,  and  cuts  the  road, 
And  cowers  at  once  o'er  land  and  flood. 
Art  bids  his  wheels  impetuous  roll, 
And  bounds  exulting  to  the  goal. 
And  Science  bids  her  lights  expand, 
To  cheer  and  bless  our  native  land. 

V. 

What  have  we  seen  ?     The  form,  the  eye, 
Of  beauty  and  of  dignity ; 
The  stranger's  glance  before  us  flitting ; 
The  group  around  our  fireside  sitting ; 
Some  that  have  smiled  on  us  for  years, 
And  some  whose  smile  now  first  appears 
Dimpling  upon  the  infant  cheek, 
Ere  yet  the  tongue  its  love  can  speak. 

VI. 

What  have  we  seen  ?     The  year  is  fled : — 
Tears,  deep- wrung  tears,  have  wept  the  dead, 
And  Memory  fondly  lingers  o'er 
Forms  that  on  earth  are  seen  no  more. 

VII. 

JVJiat  have  we  heard  t     The  bird  of  morn 
Awake  us  with  his  piercing  horn ; 
The  sprightly  music  of  the  woods ; 
The  murmur  of  the  rippling  floods  ; 


toems.  211 

The  rattling  thunder,  and  the  roar 
Of  the  chafed  lake  and  echoing  shore. — 
What  have  we  heard  ?     The  daily  hum 
Of  busy  men  that  go  and  come  : 
The  laborer's  loud  and  cheerful  song ; 
The  table  talk — more  low,  but  long. — 
What  have  we  heard?     A  thousand  voices, 
That  tell  us  the  living  world  rejoices  ! 
What  have  we  heard  ?     A  thousand  sighs, 
That  tell  us  the  loved  and  the  lover  dies  ! — 
What  have  we  heard  ?     Yon  house  of  prayer 
Of  this  may  serious  witness  bear 

VIII. 
What  have  we  felt  ?     The  joys  that  spring, 
Pure,  under  Law's  maternal  wing  ; 

The  blessings  of  the  free  ! 
Who  crouch  not  to  a  tyrant's  sway, 
Who  hold  the  oppressor's  arm  at  bay ;  — 
Our  government  the  common  choice, 
Our  rulers  raised  by  public  voice  ; 
In  whose  firm  wisdom  we  confide 
The  powerful  helm  of  state  to  guide, 

Secure  from  anarchy. 
Did  they  turn  venal — use  their  power 
Corruptly  ?    In  an  awful  hour, 

The  Public  Spirit  woke, 
And  down  from  their  dishonored  height, 
Dashed  them  in  her  indignant  might, 

And  every  fetter  broke. 


212  POEMS. 

IX. 

Yes,  ours  are  liberty  and  peace ; — 
All,  all  for  which  illustrious  Greece 
The  red  right  arm  of  death  hath  bared, 
And  nobly  done,  and  nobly  dared, 
All  perils  in  her  righteous  war 
Against  the  Turkish  scimetar. 

X. 

Land  of  Leonidas  !   in  vain 

The  Moslem  wreathes  the  galling  chain ; 

Oppression's  wide  and  wasting  sea 

Is  checked  at  stern  Thermopylae, 

And  backward  rolls,  a  broken  flood, 

Drained  as  it  rolls,  and  red  with  blood ; — 

And  now  in  Samos'  strait, 
See,  see,  it  meets  the  Grecian  fires — 
Hisses — recoils — explodes — expires  ! — 

Greece,  yet  regenerate, 
Shall  kneel  on  her  untrampled  shore, 
Her  great  Deliverer  to  adore  ! 

XL 

Nor  hath  the  South  less  nobly  done ; — 
The  meed  of  Valor  there  is  won, 

And  Freedom's  banner  floats, 
Triumphant,  in  the  closing  year, 
O'er  the  whole  Western  Hemisphere, 

And  Freedom's  joyous  notes 
Swell  where  her  banner  is  unfurled, 
And  wake  the  echoes  of  a  world. 


POEMS.  213 

XII. 

Is  there  a  man  who  refuses  to  feel 
A  generous  joy  at  his  country's  weal  ? 
Is  there  a  man  who  is  not  content 
With  the  fruits  of  our  liberal  government  ? — 
The  lips  of  that  man  are  unworthy  yet 
To  pronounce  the  name  of  a  La  Fayette  ! 
And  his  eyes  to  gaze  on  that  generous  son 
Of  our  own  immortal  Washington  ! 
And  his  heart  to  taste  of  the  rapture  sweet, 
That  rolls  like  a  wave  at  the  veteran's  feet, 
And  swells  in  triumph  in  every  breast, 
That  hath  loved  and  welcomed   'the   Nation's 
Guest.' 

XIII." 

What  have  we  felt  ?     The  joys  of  Health. 

No  pestilence,  with  midnight  stealth, 

Hath  passed  our  streets,  and  stole  the  bloom 

Of  life,  to  hide  it  in  the  tomb. — 

The  sweets  of  Plenty.     Famine,  dread, 

Hath  from  our  fruitful  borders  fled ; 

Where  timely  sun  and  shower  were  given 

In  mercy  by  indulgent  Heaven, 

Whose  goodness  still  forbears  the  stroke 

Ingratitude  doth  still  provoke, 

And  bids  alike  his  creatures  share 

His  tenderest  providential  care. — 

O,  who  such  goodness  can  despise, 

Nor  yield  his  heart  in  sacrifice  ? — 


214  POEMS 

XIV. 

What  have  we  felt  ?     The  sacred  joys 

That  rise  at  pure  Religion's  voice. 

The  peace  that  flows  from  pardoned  sin, 

And  purity  begun  within  ; 

And  gratitude  that  fills  the  breast 

With  rapture  not  to  be  expressed, 

In  Him  who  is  our  only  pride, 

Our  boast,  our  song — the  Crucified  ! 

The  light  that  still  to  Faith  is  given 

To  guide  our  wandering  feet  to  heaven ; 

And  Hope,  glad  Hope,  which  upward  springs 

On  Faith  and  Love's  expanding  wings ; 

Devotion  breathing  from  the  heart 

To  Him  whose  promises  impart 

A  consolation,  strength,  repose, 

The  unbeliever  never  knows; 

Fraternal  Love,  which  smiles  to  see 

The  church  of  God's  prosperity ; 

And  Charity,  which  burns  to  bless 

A  world  of  guilt  and  wretchedness. 

XV. 

O,  learn,  ye  rich  !   in  wealth  secure, 

To  share  your  blessings  with  the  poor, 

The  naked  clothe,  the  hungry  feed ; 

In  works  of  mercy  rich  indeed  ! 

Instruct  the  ignorant — impart 

The  light  of  heaven  to  cheer  the  heart; 

Console  the  desolate — and  share 

The  widow's  song,  the  orphan's  prayer ! — 


\ 


I 


POEMS.  215 

XVI. 

O,  could  the  Chart  be  but  once  unfurled, 
Which  records  the  track  of  the  living  world, 
Could  the  curious  eye  of  the  mind  peruse 
Distinctly  the  feelings,  and  facts,  and  views, 
What  a  panorama  would  then  appear- 
Of  shifting  scenes  in  a  single  year  ! 
And  who  could  catch,  as  they  flitted  by, 
Their  moral  hue  for  eternity ! 

XVII. 

Yet  know,  O  man  !  there  is  an  Eye  hath  seen 
All  that  within  earth's  ample  bound  hath  been. 
There  is  an  Ear  which  hath  in  secret  heard 
Each  breathing  wish  and  softly-whispered  word. 
There  is  an  Intellect,  whose  mighty  thought 
Hath  treasured  every  deed  that  man  hath  wrought. 
Lift  up  thine  eye  above  yon  dazzling  flood, 
Whose  drops  are  suns — behold  the  throne  of  God  ! 
From  Him  proceeds  whatever  good  is  found, 
Seen,  heard,  or  felt,  as  years  complete  their  round. 

XVIII. 

O,  may  his  awful  presence  breathe 
A  sanctity  on  all  beneath  ; 
'   And  every  retrospect  be  fraught 
With  odors  of  immortal  thought ! — 

XIX. 

Come,  brethren,  come  !  o'er  the  year  reviewed, 
Let  us  weave  the  chaplet  of  gratitude, 


21G  POEMS. 

And  deck  it  with  every  illumined  gem 
That  bcfitteth  a  royal  diadem  ! 
Let  us  search  the  earth  for  the  freshest  flowers 
That  bloom  in  her  wilds  or  her  cultured  bowers ; 
Let  us  cull  them  out  with  the  choicest  art, 
And  bathed  in  the  dews  of  a  grateful  heart, 
Form  them  into  a  crown  for  the  Monarch  dear, 
Whose  richest  goodness  hath  crowned  the  year ! 

XX. 

And  now,  farewell.     When  yet  a  few  more  days 

Like  this,  have  circled  round  the  burning  sun, 
The  harp  that  erst  poured  forth  these  simple  lays, 

Shall  sound  no  more — its  earthly  labors  done  ! 
Patrons  beloved  !   where  then  will  ye  be  gone  ? 

Will  time  have  borne  you  to  the  eternal  sea? 
Grant  then,  O  grant  us,  All-Disposing  One  ! 

To  meet  and  hold  celestial  jubilee 
In  the  emporium  of  our  immortality  ! 


THE    BARDS    FIRST    AMBITION. 

Shall  Homer  sing,  and  shall  his  verse  remain, 
Unmatched,  undistanced,  by  some  nobler  theme? 

Shall  Virgil,  too,  wake  that  bold  song  again, 
And  as  the  stars  of  morn  and  evening  gleam, 
Filling  the  soul  of  youth  with  fancy's  dream? 

O,  be  it  mine  to  raise  a  loftier  strain 


POEMS.  217 

Than  e'er  was  sung  by  bard  of  earlier  days, 
Save  when  the  Psalmist  swept  on  Bethlehem's 
plain, 
That  sacred  lyre  which  rung  but  with  Jehovah's 
praise  ! 

Or  when  bold  Milton,  though  deprived  of  sight, 

Illustrious  bard  !  o'er  those  high  numbers  run, 
His  towering  Muse  disdained  a  meaner  flight, 

But  soared  to  heaven,  and  endless  glory  won; 

And  yet  his  noblest  theme  was  but  begun  ! 
That  noblest  theme,  my  happier  Muse,  be  thine  ! 

Concentrate  all  thine  energies  in  one ; 
Then  stretch  thy  pinions  for  the  flight  divine, 
If  thou  wouldst  sing  the  love  of  God's  eternal 
Son! 

Hamilton,  July,  1819. 


THE    MYSTERY    OF    GODLINESS. 

Thee  we  adore,  and  sing,  our  Father  God  ! — 
Whose  boundless  love,  whose  wisdom  infinite, 
But  Thine,  conceived  the  everlasting  plan 
Of  our  redemption  ?     Finite  thought  had  failed 
To  fathom  the  profound  of  our  distress ; 
How  much  more,  then,  to  find  a  remedy ! 
But  Thou  hast  found  it,  and  the  mystery, 
Hidden  from  ages  and  from  generations, 
Is  now  at  once  accomplished  and  revealed ! 
19 


218  POEMS. 

Glory  forever  to  thy  glorious  name  !  — 

For  now  Thou  canst  be  just — thy  throne  remain 

In  full  integrity  and  firmer  strength — 

Thy  perfect  law  immensely  magnified 

In  every  eye,  whether  in  heaven  above, 

Or  earth  below,  even  while  Thou  justifiest 

The  guilty  suppliant  trusting  in  thy  Son ! — 

How  hast  thou  loved  us,  who  deserved  thy  frown, 
Forever  and  forever  !     Thou  hast  given 
TLiae  own,  thine  only,  thy  beloved  Son, 
For  us  to  surfer,  and  for  us  to  die, 
Our  mighty  Ransom  ! — More  Thou  couldst  not  give. 
And  having  Him  bestowed,  hast  bid  us  think, 
What  lesser  gift  Thou  canst  from  us  withhold, 
Through  the  long  circle  of  eternal  years  ! — 

O'er  this  immense,  unfathomable  love 

Our  glowing  hearts  dilate.     And  then  we  turn 

Our  swimming  eyes,  Immanuel !   on  thee, 

Bright  Image  of  the  Father  !  to  behold 

Thy  love  with  his  in  blissful  unison, 

For  Thou  didst  bear  our  sorrows  !     Though  before 

Earth  was,  thy  glory  with  the  Father's  shone, 

Immixed  and  equal,  in  the  heaven  of  heavens, 

Yet  didst  thou  take  a  servant's  form  for  us, 

Humbling  thyself  to  the  accursed  cross, 

To  raise  us  up  to  more  exalted  joys 

Than  tongue  can  utter,  or  than  heart  conceive. 

This,  this  inspires  our  scngs !  this  fill  our  souls 


POEMS.  219 

With  such  successive  scenes  of  ravishment, 
Amazement,  deep  abasement,  and  delight, 
Transport  on  transport  thrilling,  that,  o'erpowered 
By  the  vast  wonders  of  redeeming  love, 
Prostrate  we  fall  before  Thee,  and  confess, 
1  Great  is  the  mystery  of  godliness  !' 
A'ew  Hartford,  (JV.F.)  Aug.  1819. 


ON  A  VERY  SUDDEN  AND  AFFECTING  DEATH. 

O,  what  a  victory  was  here, 

Dread  tyrant !  o'er  the  mortal  part; 

Long,  long,  affection's  bitter  tear 

Shall  mourn  the  triumph  of  thy  dart. 

And  was  there  then  no  meaner  breast, 
Wherein  thy  shaft  might  entrance  found, 

Where  fewer  claims  of  Nature  prest, 

Where  fewer  hearts  would  feel  the  wound. 

O'er  yon  pale  form  a  husband  bows; 

Around,  her  lovely  children  grieve  ; 
The  church,  who  heard  with  joy  her  vows 

The  poor  she  may  no  more  relieve. 

Alas  !  that  bosom  now  is  cold, 

So  warm,  so  pure,  so  good,  so  kind ! 

Alas  !  that  thou  shouldst  be  so  bold, 
O  Death  !  or  man  should  be  so  blind  ! 
Hudson,  April,  1819. 


220  POEMS. 


THE    SOVEREIGNTY    OF    GOD. 

Awake,  O  world,  and  sing 

Your  glorious  Sovereign's  praise  ; 
Adore  your  heavenly  King 
In  all  his  works  and  ways. 
High  on  his  throne  supreme  he  reigns, 
And  well  his  majesty  maintains. 

'Twas  his  almighty  word 

Gave  all  creation  birth  ; 

He  spread  the  arching  skies, 

And  the  extended  earth  ; 

All  things  to  him  existence  owe, 

In  heaven  above,  or  earth  below. 

One  universal  law 

The  eternal  Monarch  laid, 
On  creatures  whom  his  power 
For  his  own  glory  made  ; 
To  love  his  name  with  all  their  heart, 
And  never  from  his  will  depart, 

How  just  was  such  command, 

For  creatures  to  obey  ! 
How  happy  were  they  all, 
Who  yielded  to  its  sway  ! 
The  King  of  truth  and  righteousness 
Deigned  still  their  peaceful  souls  to  bless 


I 


POEMS.  221 

But  when  the  angels  dared 

Against  him  to  rebel, 
His  holy  arm  was  bared, 

And  thrust  them  down  to  hell ; 
There  bound  in  gloomy  chains  to  stay, 
And  wait  the  last  great  judgment  day. 

Yet  when  our  guilt}'-  race 

Joined  that  rebellion  too, 
Not  from  his  awful  face 

The  insulted  Monarch  threw 
Us  rebels,  but  in  mercy  stayed 
The  sword  of  vengeance  o'er  our  head. 

Ay,  more  his  sovereign  love 

For  us  hath  freely  done  ; 

Behold  his  bosom  move  ! 

He  gives  his  only  Son, 

To  bleed  and  die  for  guilty  men, 

And  bring  us  back  to  God  again. 

Hosannah  to  our  King 

Of  glorious  sovereignty  ! 
Let  all  creation  ring 

With  love's  great  victory  ! 
While  countless  ages  roll  along, 
This,  this  shall  swell  our  grateful  song ! 
1821. 
19* 


ON    SINGING. 

I  will  sing  with  the  spirit,  and  I  will  sing  with  the  under- 
standing also.— 1  Cor.  xiv.  15. 

And  '  I  will  sing.' — Ye  saints,  rejoice, 

As  this  resolve  ye  hear ; 
And  let  the  Apostle's  holy  voice 

Fall  sweetly  on  your  ear. 
Can  music's  soft  and  swelling  strain 

Improper  be  for  you  ? 
Shall  such  example  plead  in  vain  ? 

Are  not  your  praises  due  ? 

And  'I  will  sing.'     But  when,  or  how? 

*  I'll  with  the  Spirit  sing  ;' 
Breathe,  blessed  Spirit !  \>n  us  now, 

Till  the  heart's  chords  do  ring  ! 
Till  every  heart,  and  every  tongue, 

In  sacred  union  join, 
And  make  devotion's  hallowed  song 

Rise  to  the  throne  divine. 

And,  O,  shall  aught  be  wanting  still, 

The  concert  to  complete  ? 
Shall  discords  rise  for  want  of  skill, 

Where  harmony  should  meet  ? 
No  :  I  will  sing,  ye  tuneful  band  ! 

With  study  so  applied, 
That  all  who  hear,  may  understand, 

And  all  be  edified. 
1820. 


poems.  223 

a  husband  to  his  wife, 

ON  THE  DEATH    OF    A    FAVORITE    LITTLE    DAUGHTER- 

Why  shines  the  morning  sun  so  bright, 

Why  sing  the  birds  the  woods  along  ? 
Our  Lucia  cannot  see  the  light, 

Our  Lucia  cannot  hear  the  song  ! 
Why  should  the  fragrant  Spring  return 

With  smile  serene  and  balmy  breath  ? 
It  cannot  soothe  the  souls  that  mourn, 

Since  Lucia's  smile  is  lost  in  death. 

Whither,  ah,  whither  can  I  go, 

But  Lucia's  image  meets  me  there, 
To  touch  afresh  the  springs  of  wo, 

And  nurse  the  grief  I  cannot  bear ! 
Even  in  the  silent  hours  of  rest, 

Her  image  haunts  my  broken  sleep ; 
I  dream  I  clasp  her  to  my  breast, 

But  only  wake,  again  to  weep. 

And  when,  to  find  relief,  I  try 

To  pour  my  heart  out,  love,  to  thee, 
The  tear  that  trembles  in  thine  eye 

Is  inward  agony  to  me. 
O,  why  do  we  so  fondly  love, 

Where  love  itself  but  feeds  our  pain  ? 
But  He  is  just  who  reigns  above, 

And  I  should  wrong  him  to  complain. 


I 


224  poems. 

Eternal  Wisdom  must  have  seen 

Some  cause  for  this  we  do  not  see ; 
Else  this  affliction  had  not  been, — 

He  does  not  love  our  misery. 
He  knows,  my  love,  full  well  He  knows, 

How  prone  we  are  to  cling  to  earth, 
And  thus  that  heavenly  will  oppose, 

That  forms  us  to  sublimer  worth. 

He  gave,  He  gave  our  Lucia  dear, 

Pledge  of  our  chaste  and  wedded  love, 
To  be  awhile  our  comfort  here, 

And  to  be  trained  for  joys  above. 
But  we  perhaps  too  fondly  prized 

The  gift,  and  Him  who  gave  forgot ; 
And,  Him  forsaking,  idolized 

The  blessings  of  our  earthly  lot. 

Perhaps  He  wished  to  loose  the  tie 

That  binds  us  to  this  fleeting  scene, 
That  we  might  gently  learn  to  die, 

Nor  feel  the  parting  pang  so  keen. 
O,  let  us  search  his  sacred  word, 

And  kneel,  my  love,  before  his  throne, 
And  give  up  meekly  to  the  Lord 

Ourselves  and  all  we  call  our  own. 


What  sacred  peace  is  this  I  feel 
Upon  my  troubled  spirit  shed  ? 


poems.  225 

What  hopes  are  these  that  sweetly  heal 

The  bosom  that  so  lately  bled  ? 
Can  Faith  produce  so  sweet  a  calm, 

Can  Prayer  such  sanctity  impart? 
Hath  Resignation  such  a  balm  ? — 

Where  then  has  been  my  wandering  heart  ? 

Why  did  our  loss  so  sorely  try 

Our  souls — deserved  we  not  far  worse  ? 
Yet  God  gave  up  his  Son  to  die, 

His  only  Son,  to  die  for  us. 
O,  what  a  sacrifice  is  here  ! 

Lord,  we  are  dumb  before  the  Cross ; 
No  more  we  deem  our  lot  severe — 

Thy  love  can  make  up  every  loss. 

Pale  lily  of  our  pride,  farewell ! 

The  mental  agony  is  past; 
Hushed  is  the  bosom's  heavy  swell, 

The  tide  of  grief  subsides  at  last. 
With  love  that  words  may  never  speak, 

With  tears  that  without  murmur  fell, 
We  left  our  kisses  on  thy  cheek — 

Pale  lily  of  our  pride,  farewell ! 

Deep  in  our  breasts  thy  name  embalmed, 
Thine  image,  Lucia,  oft  shall  wake  ; 

But  the  same  thoughts  that  now  have  calmed, 
The  rising  wave  of  wo  shall  break. 

Still  will  we  charge  our  souls  to  keep 

The  Savior's  name  embalmed  with  thine; 


226 


POEMS. 


And  if  at  times  our  eyes  will  weep, 
Never,  O,  never  to  repine  ! 

By    Tonawanda's  winding  stream, 

Where  lies  thy  loved  and  lonely  grave, 
We'll  go  what  time  the  sun's  last  heam 

Is  silvering  o'er  the  silent  wave  ; 
And  while  the  soft  and  dewy  eve 

Is  stealing  on  o'er  earth  and  sky, 
We'll  pray  that  we  may  learn  to  grieve 

As  those  that  feel  a  Savior  nigh. 
Tonawanda,   N.  Y.  April,  1825. 


ELEGIAC    LINES, 
WRITTEN    AT    BUFFALO,    N.  Y.    MARCH,    1825. 

Fair  village  !  thrice  the  piercing  gale 
Swept  sternly  o'er  thy  smiling  spring, 

And  many  a  flower  to-day  is  pale, 
That  yesterday  was  blossoming. 

And  shall  they  fade  and  fall  unsung  ? 

Sweet  babe  !  one  tear  shall  fall  for  thee, 
O'er  whom  for  months  a  mother  hung 

In  mutest,  fondest  agony. 

O,  softly  enter  yonder  room  ! 

There  patient  Piety  expires  ; 
Faith's  radiant  torch  dispels  the  gloom, 

Hope  kindles  her  immortal  fires. 


poems.  227 

Turn  to  this  pale,  this  lovely  boy, 

And  how  canst  thou  forbear  to  weep  ? 

A  father's  hope,  a  mother's  joy, 
Is  sunk  in  death's  oblivious  sleep. 

What,  then,  is  life  ?  and  what  are  we, 

Who  boast  so  fugitive  a  state  ? — 
Eternity  !    Eternity ! 

In  thee,  thee  only,  man  is  great ' 


ELIZABETH. 

There  is  a  fresh  and  vivid  picture  hung 

By  Memory's  hand  before  my  eye  of  one 
Whom  I  would  not  forget.     A  voice  has  sung 

Her  funeral  dirge.     Upon  the  simple  stone 
Which  in  yon  church-yard  fond  affection  reared, 

Her  name  is  graven.     Epitaph  there's  none. 
And  none  was  needed ;  for  who  ever  feared 

Oblivion  of  her  virtues  ?    They  were  grown 
One  with  her  name  to  all,  to  all  her  name  endeared. 

O,  I  have  looked  for  her  !   the  graceful  form 
And  beaming  features,  in  this  very  room; 

For  here  I  saw  her  first,  when  life  was  warm, 
And  the  sweet  blush  was  on  her  cheek  of  bloom. 

O,  I  have  looked  for  her,  until  a  gloom 

Gathered  upon  my  soul — for  then  I  thought 

That  she  was  sleeping  in  her  early  tomb  ! 


228  poems. 

Her  God  hath  taken  her,  and  she  is  not ; 
But,  O,  within  this  heart  she  cannot  be  forgot ! 

Thou  lovely  lost  one  !    Ever  shall  thy  name 
With  my  lamented  sister's  be  embalmed, 

In  fragrant  recollection.  Thou  the  same 
To  me  wert  as  a  younger  sister,  armed 
With  equal  power — the  tenderness  that  calmed 

The  throbs  of  sorrow — the  sweet  piety 

Which,     nurtured   at    the    Cross,   hath  softly 
charmed 

The  soul  to  penitence  and  prayer.     O  be, 
Elizabeth  !  companion  of  my  Emily  ! 

I  saw  not  thy  decay.     In  fancy,  still, 

Thy  form  wears  all  its  freshness,  and  thine  eye 
Its  eloquent  expression.     Never  will 
The  living  image  of  thy  beauty  die. 
The  fixed  bright  picture  of  my  memory 
Can   never  change    or   fade.      Thus    shalt   thou 
stand, 
Enshrined  within  the  mind's  eternity, 
So  meek,  so  pure,  so  beautiful,  so  bland, 
Like  Virtue's  self  to  smile,  to  charm,  and  to  com- 
mand. 
Homer,  JV.  Y.  May,  1825. 


poems.  229 


Where  is  my  loved  Elizabeth  ? 

Why  with  her  sisters  comes  she  not  ? 
Ah,  victim  of  untimely  death  ! 

When  shalt  thou  ever  be  forgot  ? 

Yet  why  forgot  ?     Her  dying  look, 
So  calm,  so  sweet,  I  seem  to  see, 

When  she  in  faltering  accents  spoke, 
'  Lord  Jesus  !  take  my  soul  to  Thee  !' 

Child  of  my  love  !  the  lily   pale, 
Was  not  so  beautiful  as  thou, 

What  time  beneath  the  piercing  gale, 
I  saw  thy  head  in  weakness  bow. 

Yet  still  a  glow  was  on  thy  cheek, 
A  smile  still  lingered  in  thine  eye ; 

How  could  I  think  thou  wert  so  weak, 
How  could  I  dream  my  child  must  die  ? 

Fondly  I  hoped  the  storm  had  swept, 
That  chilled  awhile  thy  living  bloom 

But,  ah  !  that  blighted  hope  I've  wept, 
And  bent  me  o'er  thine  early  tomb. 

Yes,  thou  art  gone  !     Yet  visit  me — 
O,  visit  me  in  dreams,  my  love  ! 

And  whisper  hope  that  I  shall  see 
Thy  face  again  in  worlds  above. 
20 


230  POEMS. 

Elizabeth,  my  daughter  dear  ! 

On  thee  a  father's  thoughts  will  dwell- 
But  thou  hast  found  a  happier  sphere, 

And  I  submit — my  child,  farewell ! 


TO    ADELINE. 

I  have  heard  thy  petition,  dear  Adeline, 

And  fain  would  thy  wish  obey ; 
O,  that  this  humble  response  of  mine 
Could  some  blessing  to  thee  convey  ! 
But  the  simplest  strain  may  some  joy  impart, 
If  it  come  from  a  warm  and  a  feeling  heart. 

And  what  is  the  blessing  I  wish  for  thee, 

For  Elizabeth's  sister  dear, 
But  a  double  share  of  her  piety, 
And  a  confidence  sincere 
In  Him  who  on  Calvary  bore  the  load 
Of  our  guilt,  to  recover  our  souls  to  God  ? 

O,  when  thou  shalt  visit  the  lowly  grave, 

Where  thy  sister  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Remember  that  nothing  on  earth  can  save 
Thyself  from  that  slumber  deep  ; 
And  thy  spirit  must  go,  as  went  hers,  to  see 
The  secrets  of  souls  and  eternity  ! 


POEMS.  231 

Can  aught  then  enlighten  the  gloomy  path, 

Which  the  vanished  dead  have  trod  ? 
Is  there  One  who  can  rescue  thy  soul  from  wrath, 
And  present  it  all  pure  to  God  ? 
There  is  !  and  that  Savior,  dear  Adeline, 
Let  him  be  thy  hope,  as  He  hath  been  mine. 


TO    LOUISA. 

Louisa,  thou  hast  early  owned 

The  Name  that  seraphs  love  to  sing, 
Of  Him  who  sits  on  high  enthroned 

Heaven's  august  and  eternal  King ; 

Youth's  first  bright  blossoms  thou  didst  bring, 
An  offering  to  his  glorious  shrine  ; 

If  Autumn  shall  mature  the  Spring, 
What  a  rich  harvest  shall  be  thine  ! 

O,  what  a  privilege  to  be, 

At  such  an  early  age,  enrolled 
In  that  celestial  family, 

Whom  everlasting  arms  enfold  ! 

A  portion  and  a  place  to  hold 
Among  the  gifted  heirs  of  heaven, 

To  whom  the  diadems  of  gold, 
Wrought  by  the  Savior's  hands,  are  given  ! 

Louisa,  why  thy  stay  on  earth  ? 
O  hear,  and  ponder  in  thy  heart. 


232  poems. 

It  is  that  thine  immortal  birth 
May  its  high  energies  impart ; 
That,  trained  by  every  sacred  art, 

Thy  lovely  spirit  may  be  meet 

O'er  the  cold  flood  of  death  to  dart, 

And  worship  at  thy  Father's  feet. 


TO    SARAH    ANN. 

Yes,  Sarah  Ann,  while  others  twine, 

Or  cull  sweet  flowers  to  grace  their  friend, 

Surely  this  humble  hand  of  mine, 
At  least,  may  one  small  tribute  lend, 

My  heart's  warm  wishes  to  express 

For  thine  increasing  happiness. 

My  simple  lay  may  never  speak 
In  Flattery's  soft,  seductive  tones ; 

No  blush  shall  mantle  on  thy  cheek, 
Which  sweet  Humility  disowns. 

Jesus  shall  our  example  be  ; — 

Knowest  thou  what  He  would  say  to  thee  ? 

O,  should  that  glorious  One  whom  thou 
Prizest  all  earthly  friends  above, 

Inscribe  the  page  I'm  filling  now, 

Would  He  not  charge  thee  by  his  love — 

'Beware,  dear  girl,  each  worldly  art; 

'Be  simple,  meek,  and  pure  of  heart  V 


'! 


233 


LOVELINESS    OF     YOUTHFUL    PIETY. 

I  love  to  see  a  mind  whose  youthful  powers 
Expanding  rapidly,  dear  child,  like  thine, 

As  beautiful  and  fresh  as  morning  flowers, 

Which,  dripping  with  the  dew,  their  buds  incline 
To  catch  the  beams  of  heaven.     O  Adeline, 

I  love  to  see  the  soul  in  early  bloom, 
Thus  heavenward  turned  to  meet  the  light  divine, 

Whose  radiant  beams  dispel  earth's  deepest  gloom, 
And  turn  to  glory  even  the  midnight  of  the  tomb  ! 

It  is,  in  truth,  the  most  enchanting  sight 

Which  this  world  offers  to  the  thoughtful  eye ; 

And  he  who  estimates  its  worth  aright, 

Feels  his  full  heart  within  him  beating  high, 
And  breathes  his  warm  thanksgiving.     At  least,  I 

Have  felt  so,  and  still  feel.     And,  O,  may  you, 
Aspire,  dear  child,  daily  to  exemplify 

This  fair  conception  ;   thy  young  soul  imbue 
With  truth  and  love  more  sweet  than  morn's  sweet  light 
and  dew. 


A    FATHER    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER. 

Child  of  affection  !  sweet  blossom  of  youth ! 

The  eyes  of  thy  parents-  rest  fondly  on  thee  ; 
They  behold  thy  mild  virtues  adorning  the  truth, 
And  their  hearts  overflow  with  a  pure  ecstasy. 
20* 


POEMS. 

Can  a  daughter  so  dear, 
But  in  gratitude  fear, 
To  dim  that  delight  with  dark  misery's  tear  ? 

Oft  wilt  thou  dwell  on  their  wishes  and  prayers. 

How  anxious  their  efforts  !  how  tender  their  love  ! 
How  transporting  the  hope  that  the  child  of  their 
cares 
Shall  be  fully  matured  for  the  glory  above  ! 
To  unite  again  there, 
And  eternity  share  ! 
Canst  thou  ever  convert  such  a  hope  to  despair  ? 

Canst  thou    ever?     My    daughter,    forgive  me  the 
thought ! 
That  eye  in  its  tears  meekly  lifted  to  heaven, 
With  a  pure  and  a  precious  assurance  is  fraught, 
That  the  grace  of  the  humble  to  thee  shall  be  given. 
O  daughter  most  dear  ! 
It  shall  hallow  thee  here, 
And  exalt  thee  at  last  to  a  happier  sphere  ! 


ADELAIDE. 


Thou  art  young,  thou  art  young,  dear  Adelaide  ! 

But  Youth  cannot  shield  from  the  shafts  of  death 
The  earliest  blossom  that  scents  the  glade, 

Is  blighted  first  by  the  north  wind's  breath. 


poems.  235 

Thou  art  fair,  thou  art  fair,  young  Adelaide  ! 

But  Beauty  will  fade  in  the  rayless  tomb ; 
And  the  rose  which  the  richest  tints  displayed, 

Is  the  soonest  reft  of  its  lovely  bloom. 

Thou  art  gay,  thou  art  gay,  fair  Adelaide  ! 

But  Mirth  will  chill  in  the  snowy  shroud ; 
The  beam  which  in  summer  the  brightest  played, 

Is  quenched  in  stern  Winter's  deepest  cloud. 

Thou  art  loved,  thou  art  loved,  gay  Adelaide  ! 

But  Love  itself  hath  no  power  to  save ; 
Its  last  sad  office  must  soon  be  paid, 

And  its  tears  be  shed  o'er  the  sod-wrapt  grave. 

Thou  weepest,  thou  weepest,  dear  Adelaide  ! 

But  holy  Sorrow  will  mend  the  heart ; 
As  Spring,  with  its  showers  and  its  passing  shade, 

Which  '  greenness  and  beauty  and  strength  '  im 
part. 

Thou  smilest,  thou  smilest,  young  Adelaide  ! 

For  thy  Trust  is  strong  in  thy  Savior's  truth  ; 
And  Heaven  shall  flourish,  when  earth  shall  fade, 

In  the  glow  and  bloom  of  immortal  youth ! 


236  poems. 


THE    HAPPY    FAMILY. 

REFLECTIONS    DURING    A    SABBATH    MORNING'S  WALK 
FROM    HAMILTON    TO      SHERBURNE,    N.  Y.     IN     MAY, 

1822. 

I  am  going  forth  in  hope  to-day, 

To  proclaim  with  joy  a  Savior  born; 

And  every  object  around  my  way 

Seems  with  me  to  rejoice  in  the  Sabbath  morn. 

How  bright,  how  calm,  how  holy  the  scene ! 

The  sun  is  shining  in  beauty  now  j 
And  Nature  is  drest  in  her  robes  of  green, 

And  the  birds  are  singing  on  every  bough. 

And  beneath  that  dear  domestic  roof, 

I  have  left  behind  this  very  hour, 
I  have  seen  a  fresh  and  a  living  proof 

Of  religion's  pure  and  blissful  power. 

The  sire,  whose  locks  unwilling  Time 
Hath  lightly  touched  with  silver  now ; 

The  mother,  whose  fair  unfaded  prime 
Still  lingers  bright  on  her  open  brow ) 

The  children,  bright  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
Together  bowing  at  Mercy's  throne ; 

With  hearts  alive  to  the  voice  of  Truth, 

And  a  Christian  love,  to  the  world  unknown. 


\ 


' 


poems.  237 

Such  is  the  dear,  the  hallowed  scene, 
On  which  my  thoughts  delight  to  dwell ; 

Fairer  by  far  than  the  brightest  green, 
That  Nature  sheds  o'er  bosk  and  dell  ! 

For  Religion  around  the  domestic  hearth 
Doth  sweetly  breathe  in  tones  of  love, 

And  waft  the  soul  from  the  scenes  of  earth, 
To  thoughts  of  a  brighter  world  above. 

There  are  statelier  domes  that  proudly  rise, 
Where  wealth  and  taste  combined  I  see ; 

But  they  have  no  charms  in  the  Christian's  eyes, 
Like  the  Home  of  that  Happy  Family ! 


Messiah's  kingdom. 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE    NEW    YEAR. 

The  Muse  of  Time  !    Can  she  forget 
His  touch  is  marked  by  swift  decay — 

That  scenes  which  glitter  bright  as  yet, 
Will  soon  be  vanished  all  away — 

And  ere  a  few  brief  years  are  fled, 

We  shall  be  mingled  with  the  dead  ? 

She  cannot !  for  the  mournful  thrill 
Of  feeling  waked  by  Memory's  hand, 

Is  trembling  o'er  her  bosom  still, 

Unawed  by  Reason's  stern  command  ; 


233 


And  still  she  looks  for  scenes  sublime, 
Beyond  the  withering  touch  of  Time. 

Nor  looks  in  vain  !    For,  lo,  secure, 
Messiah's  kingdom  now  appears, 

Destined  in  brightness  to  endure, 
Uninjured  by  the  lapse  of  years  : — 

Aye,  rising  still  in  brighter  bloom, 

When  earth  has  met  her  final  doom  ! 

Empire  of  Peace  !    The  passing  year 
Hath  wider  spread  thy  gentle  sway ; 

And  gazing  on  thy  triumphs  dear, 
We  hail  the  dawn  of  holier  day ; 

When  God's  high  will  on  earth  is  done — 

All  nations  blest  in  Christ  his  Son  ! 

See,  every  hill,  and  vale,  and  plain, 
Echoes  the  Missionary's  tread  ! 

See,  souls  redeemed  from  endless  pain, 
Are  up  to  heavenly  glory  led ! 

And  from  earth's  hosts  one  shout  is  sent — 

1  Reign  on,  Lord  God  Omnipotent!' 

The  kingdoms  of  this  world  may  pass, 
As  billows  on  the  restless  sea ; 

Bright  wealth  may  waste,  and  as  the  grass 
The  pride  of  youth  and  beauty  be  ; 

But  souls  that  own  Messiah's  sway, 

May  smile  amid  a  world's  decay ! 


\ 


poexMs.  239 

Empire  of  Love  !  The  ravished  eye 
Wanders  o'er  all  thy  scenes  of  bliss, 

And  owns  that  all  beneath  the  sky, 
Is  poor  and  mean  compared  with  this ; 

Here  rests  the  soul  with  joy  divine  ;—*- 

O,  be  my  interests  linked  with  thine ! 
1822. 


THE    LORD    IS    MY    PORTION. 

O  Thou,  in  whose  presence  I  would  not  dissemble  ! 

All  hearts  are  revealed  in  the  light  of  thine  eye ; 
Env/rapt  in  thy  glory  the  Seraphim  tremble, 

Thy  name  fills  the  harps  of  the  holy  on  high. 
Such  a  richness  of  mind,  such  a  depth  of  emotion, 

No  being  besides  could  awake,  or  impart; 
Every  thought  is  delight,  every  feeling  devotion, 

Thou,  thou  art  the  portion,  the  bliss  of  my  heart! 
Thou,  Lord,  art  my  portion,  my  infinite  portion ! 

Thou,  thou  art  the  portion,  the  bliss  of  my  heart ! 

How  dark  were  my  days  when  I  knew  not  thy  beauty! 

My  heart  was  a  waste  in  life's  earliest  bloom  ; 
I  forsook  my  true  dignity,  pleasure,  and  duty, 

And  Reflection    was    shrouded  in    anguish    and 
gloom. 
I  remember  the  time  with  a  tender  confusion, 

My  Savior !  how  could  I  forget  thee  so  long  ? 
What  mercy  was  thine  to  dissolve  the  illusion ! 


240  POCMB. 

Thine,  tliine  be  the  glory,  and  mine  be  the  song. 
Thine,  thine  be  the  glory,  the  infinite  glory  ! 

Thine,  thine  be  the  glory,  and  mine  be  the  song. 

And  ah  !  is  it  possible  I  can  still  wander, 

This  heart  vainly  flutter,  grow  faithless  and  cold  ? 
These  tears  of  affection  and  penitence  ponder, 

O  Lord,  and  restore  me  thy  smiles  as  of  old. 
I  will  clasp  the  dear  Cross  where  thy  glory  hung 
bleeding, 

Till  every  vain  idol  of  earth  shall  depart ; 
And  thy  Spirit  alone  with  thine  image  succeeding, 

Shall  dwell  evermore  in  the  shrine  of  my  heart. 
Thou,  Lord,  art  my  portion,  my  infinite  portion  ! 

Thou,  thou  art  the  portion,  the  bliss  of  my  heart! 
Hudson,  June,  1825. 


HYMNS 


PRAYER    TO    THE    TRINITY. 

Our  Father  and  our  God  ! 

Attend  our  humble  cry ; 
Send  thy  victorious  truth  abroad, 

With  blessing  from  on  high 

Come,  Jesus,  King  of  saints  ! 

With  thine  effectual  grace  ; 
And  turn  our  long  and  sad  complaints 

To  songs  of  joyful  praise. 

And  thou,  celestial  Dove  ! 

Most  holy  Spirit,  come  ; 
And  form  our  hearts  like  those  above, 

Thy  temple  and  thy  home  ! 

Come,  blessed  Trinity  ! 

With  undivided  powers  ; 
O,  break,  and  heal,  and  purify 

These  sinful  souls  of  ours  ! 

July  21,  1819. 
21 


242  HYMNS. 


PRAYER    FOR    THE    HOLY    SPIRIT. 

And  will  thy  Spirit,  O  my  God  1 

Descend  and  dwell  within  my  breast  ? 

Where  Sin  so  long  has  made  abode, 
Deceitful  and  detested  guest ! 

Come,  then,  possess  this  wandering  heart, 
Which  would  from  thee  no  longer  rove  ; 

Come,  purify  it,  and  impart 

The  vital  influence  of  thy  love ! 

May  every  fruit  of  grace  be  found, 
To  speak  thy  presence  and  thy  care  , 

And  peace  and  love  and  joy  abound, 
And  Christian  virtues  flourish  there. 

May  every  energy  of  mind, 
And  active  power,  devoted  be  ; 

And  by  thine  influence  raised,  refined, 
Call  many  a  wandering  soul  to  Thee. 
Hudson,  March,  1819. 


THE    KING    OF    TERRORS. 

Inexorable  King  !  how  vast  thy  power  '. 

No  mortal  skill  can  e'er  arrest  thy  hand  ; 
Thy  blasting  breath  withers  the  fairest  flower 
'hat  bloomed  in  beauty  o'er  the  smiling  land. 


HYMNS.  243 

And  must  this  frame  of  shrinking  weakness  feel 
Thy  grasp,  more  cold  than  winter's  northern  sky  ? 

From  thine  arrest  lies  there  no  soft  appeal  ? 
Hath  earth  no  covert  from  thy  withering  eye  ? 

None,  none  !  for  God  thy  dread  commission  gave  ; 

*  Go,  Death, where'er  the  foot  of  Guilt  shall  tread  !' 
I  then  must  sink  into  the  dreary  grave, 

I,  too,  must  slumber  with  the  silent  dead 

Great  God !  prepare  me  for  that  awful  day, 
Mine  be  the  victory,  mine  the  heavenly  prize , 

And  when  I  quit  this  tenement  of  clay, 

A  house  not  made  with  hands,  above  the  skies  ! 
April  17,  1810. 


THE    CHURCH    IN    SARDTS. 

From  heaven  a  solemn  voice  I  heard, — 
Unto  the  church  in  Sardis  write  : 

These  things  affirms  thy  sovereign  Lord, 
Sole  giver  of  salvation's  light. 

I  know  thou  hast  a  name  to  live  ; 

But  thou  to  duty's  call  art  dead ! 
Thou  dost  not  ask,  nor  canst  receive, 

The  Spirit  that  on  mine  I  shed. 

And  yet  I  would  not  give  thee  up ; — 
O  watch  !  and  strengthen  what  remains 


244  HYMNS. 

Of  faith,  and  love,  and  humble  hope, 
And  purge  thee  from  thy  worldly  stains. 

O,  watch,  I  charge  thee  on  thy  life  ! 

Lest  unexpectedly  I  come, 
And  close  my  Spirit's  warning  strife, 

With  words  of  unrelenting  doom. 

Ye  blessed  few,  whose  robes  are  pure, 

A  little  longer  faithful  be  ; 
Your  recompense  in  heaven  is  sure, 

And  ye  shall  walk  in  white  with  me. 
May,  1819. 


SELF-ABASEMENT. 

How  little  does  my  life  afford 
A  witness  that  I  love  the  Lord  ! 
How  seldom  do  my  lips  express 
How  much  my  soul  admires  his  grace  ! 

How  oft  my  inbred  lusts  rebel ! 
How  hard  temptation's  force  to  quell ! 
How  oft  I  find  the  struggle  vain, 
And  sin  o'erpowers  my  soul  again  ! 

O,  were  I  to  my  weakness  left, 
My  heart  would  sink,  of  hope  bereft; 
Such  painful  cause  I  find  to  fear 
God  never  stampt  his  image  here. 


/ 


HYMNS.  245 

Yet  though  to  sin  so  much  inci     ed, 
My  guilt  lies  heavy  on  my  mind  ; 
I  groan  beneath  the  painful  load, 
Humbled  in  dust  before  my  God. 

Deeply  I  mourn  for  what  I've  done  j 
I  spread  my  guilt  before  his  throne ; 
With  trembling  lips  I  own  my  shame, 
And  plead  the  dear  Redeemer's  name. 

But,  O,  at  times  I  can  but  fear 
He  will  not  listen  to  my  prayer  ; 
That  I  have  so  abused  his  grace, 
He  now  will  spurn  me  from  his  face  ! 

I  know,  I  feel,  it  would  be  just; 
No  righteousness  of  mine  I  trust ; 
But,  O,  a  Savior  gives  me  hope, 
And  bears  my  sinking  spirit  up  ! 

Low  at  his  feet  I  choose  to  lie, 
There,  if  I  perish,  let  me  die ; 
Mercy  is  his  supreme  delight, 
And  if  withheld — it  must  be  right ! 
Sept.  30,  1819. 
21* 


246  HYMNS. 


THE    NAME    OF    JESUS. 

And  thou  shalt  call  his  name  Jesus  ;    for  he  shall  save  his 
people  from  their  sins. — Mat.  i.  21. 

Jesus  !  thy  name  is  all  divine, 

And  with  transporting  sweetness  sounds 

To  souls  that  in  despondence  pine, 

And  groan  beneath  sin's  deadly  wounds. 

For  thou  didst  leave  thy  bright  abode, 

The  glory  of  thy  Father's  face  ; 
The  bliss,  the  grandeur,  of  the  God, 

To  take  the  ruined  sinner's  place. 

Water  of  Life  !  why  dost  thou  thirst  ? 

Why  dost  thou  hunger,  Bread  of  Heaven  ? 
The  just  One  suffers  for  the  unjust, 

That  mourning  Guilt  may  be  forgiven ! 

And  where  is  love,  if  'tis  not  here  ? 

What  else  to  earth  had  brought  thee  down  ? 
What  name  besides  should  be  so  dear, 

Or  rise  to  such  deserved  renown  ? 

O  Savior  of  thy  people  !  take 

Entire  possession  of  my  heart ! 
And  every  snare  of  evil  break, 

And  every  grace  of  heaven  impart. 
May,  1820. 


HYMNS.  247 


MILLENNIAL    TRIUMPH. 

Isaiah  lxiii.  1—6. 

What  conquering  form  salutes  my  sight, 
Adorned  with  such  surpassing  grace  ? 

As  one  returned  from  recent  fight, 
He  moves  with  slow  majestic  pace. 

From  Edom's  vale  his  steps  proceed, 

And  Bozrah's  towers  behind  him  gleam: 

No  trumpet  tells  of  martial  deed, 

No  fluttering  banners  o'er  Him  stream. 

And  whose  is  this  majestic  gait, 
Illustrious  form  !   and  tell  me  why, 

When  thou  art  travelling  thus  in  state, 
Thy  robes  are  stained  with  crimson  dye  ?- 

•  I  trod  the  press  of  wratli  alone  ! 

My  garments  drank  the  bursting  blood ; 
The  powers  of  hell  are  overthrown, 

And  trampled  by  The  Word  of  God  !' 
1820. 


248  HYMNS. 


INVITATION    TO    CHRIST. 

Come,  sinner  !    At  our  Lord's  command, 
We  would  persuade  thee  now  to  come ; 

O,  shrink  not  back,  but  yield  thy  hand, 
And,  wanderer  !  we  will  lead  thee  home. 

Thou  need'st  not  tell  how  vile  thou  art, 
Salvation's  fount  is  gushing  free  ; 

Thou  need'st  not  tell  how  hard  thy  heart, 
One  look  from  Christ  will  soften  thee ! 

O,  linger  not !    Thou  lost  one,  come, 
And  give  each  sinful  pleasure  o'er ; 

Is  not  thy  guilt  a  countless  sum  ? 

Why  wilt  thou,  lingerer  !  make  it  more  ? 

Hast  thou  no  pity  on  thy  soul, 

Whose  deep  defilement  thou  hast  seen  ? 
Come  where  the  streams  of  mercy  roll ; 

O,  wash  !  and  be  forever  clean  ! 

For  thee  a  Savior's  heart  hath  bled; 

To  give  thee  peace,  He  bore  thy  pain. 
O,  stay  not  till  thy  day  is  fled ; 

O,  crucify  Him  not  again  ! 
1820. 


HYMNS.  240 


EFFICACY  OF    THE    CROSS. 

Yet  dost  thou  love  thy  sins  so  well, 
That  thou  canst  not  forsake  them  now  J 

Those  sins  that  reared  the  gates  of  hell, 
And  kindled  all  the  flames  below  ! 

O  sinner  !  is  it  thus  with  thee  ? 

No  longer  must  we  linger  here  ; 
But  such  a  sight  thine  eyes  must  see, 

As  well  may  wring  from  thee  a  tear. 

Behold  yon  Cross  ;  its  lessons  weigh ; 

There  Jesus  hangs,  and  bleeds,  and  dies ! 
He  dies  for  thee  !  Approach,  and  say, 

Canst  thou  this  suffering  love  despise  ? 

The  very  sins  thou  lovest,  alone, 

That  thorny  crown  around  him  wreathe ; 

They  draw  that  deep  and  torturing  groan 
Of  wo,  and  agony,  and  death 

Thy  bosom  heaves  !     Thy  heart,  I  see, 
Yields  to  the  force  of  love  divine  ! 

Come  now,  all  bathed  in  tears,  with  me, 
And  own  this  suffering  Lord  as  thine  ! 
1820. 


250  HYMNS. 


THE    SUFFERINGS    OF    JESUS. 

See,  O,  my  soul !  how  sinners  rage, 
In  yonder  wild,  tumultuous  throng  ! 

See  how  their  hearts  and  hands  engage 
To  do  that  heavenly  Sufferer  wrong  ! 

See  cruel  thorns  enchase  that  brow, 
Beaming  with  dignity  and  love  ! 

Hark,  how  they  jeer  and  mock  him  now, 
And  all  his  love  and  patience  prove  ! 

And  now  the  heavy  thong  they  ply — 
O,  be  his  patience  ne'er  forgot ! 

To  Heaven  he  lifts  his  pleading  eye; 
He  suffers,  but  he  threatens  not ! 

See,  as  the  bloody  scourges  fail, 
Spite  of  divine  and  human  laws, 

Bold  sinners  shudder  not  to  nail 
The  Lord  of  Glory  to  the  cross ' 

One  moment  is  his  silence  broke — 

My  soul,  and  didst  thou  hearken  true  ? 

1  Forgive  !'  me  thought  the  Sufferer  spoke, 
*  Father,  they  know  not  what  they  do  ! 

Not  for  himself  that  pleading  call, 

Though  rushes  forth  the  crimson  tide; 

O,  had  his  outward  pangs  been  all, 
How  calmly  had  the  Savior  died  ! 


HYMNS.  251 

Within,  within,  the  thunders  roll, 
While  fiery  Justice  makes  her  plea, 

And  pours  upon  his  sinless  soul 
The  flood  of  guilt  and  agony. 

And  yet  amid  that  storm  of  wrath, 
The  blest  Redeemer  meekly  stands, 

Though  blood  and  anguish  crowd  his  path, 
And  bleed  his  feet,  and  stream  his  hands. 

My  soul,  he  suffers  in  thy  place  ! 

He  bears  these  bitter  pangs  for  thee  ! 
Thy  sins  obscured  the  Father's  face, 

And  nailed  him  to  the  accursed  tree ! 

My  sins  !  and  shall  I  love  them  still  ? 

Forbid,  forbid,  O  love  divine  ! 
O,  be  my  mind,  my  heart,  my  will, 

Forever,  Lord  !  and  only  thine  ! 
May,  1820. 


REDEEMING    LOVE. 

O  grace,  all  other  grace  above  ! 

O  love  beyond  degree  ! 
Redemption  in  a  Savior's  love, 

For  such  a  wretch  as  me. 

Sinner !  he  cries  with  melting  voice, 
For  thee,  for  thee,  I  died ; 


252  HYMNS. 

In  my  redeeming  love  rejoice, 
For  thou  art  justified. 

And  when  I  hear  him  gently  say, 

Be  pure  as  I  am  pure  ; 
My  free  heart  bursts  from  sin  away, 

And  feels  salvation  sure. 

Through  all  the  struggles  I  sustain, 

I  look  to  him  alone ; 
He  sympathizes  in  my  pain, 

With  tenderness  unknown. 

O,  how  can  my  full  heart  repay 
This  grace  all  grace  above  ? 

I  can  but  give  myself  away ; 
Love  only  pays  for  love  ! 
1820. 


THE    BELIEVER  S    BURDEN. 

Good  is  the  Lord,  supremely  good, 

How  kind  are  all  his  ways  ! 
His  favors,  day  by  day  bestowed, 

Demand  my  constant  praise. 

Fain  would  my  soul,  with  glowing  zeal, 
Fulfil  his  sweet  commands  ; 

But,  ah !  this  weight  of  sin  I  feel, 
Palsies  my  willing  hands. 


HYMNS.  253 

Beneath  the  hateful  load  I  groan, 

And  sigh  with  every  breath; 
O,  take  away  this  heart  of  stone, 

The  body  of  this  death  ! 

And,  O,  the  mercy  of  my  God ! 

My  sigh  arrests  his  ear ; 
I  see  a  Savior's  precious  blood, 

His  pardoning  voice  I  hear. 

I  feel  the  chain  of  sin  unbound, 

I  feel  my  spirit  free  ; 
While  round  my  willing  heart  is  wound 

Love's  sweet  captivity  ! 
July,  1819. 


COMPLETE    SAFETY    IN    CHRIST. 

Wretch  that  I  am,  with  guilt  replete, 
How  can  my  soul,  O  God !  appear 

Before  thy  righteous  judgment-seat, 
And  hope  to  find  acceptance  there  ? 

Can  I  expect  to  hear  thy  voice 

Pronounce  upon  my  life,  '  Well  done  !' 
And  welcome  to  eternal  joys 

The  faithful  servant  of  thy  Son  ? 
22 


254  HYMNS. 

Would  it  were  so  !    But  pause,  my  soul, 
As  in  the  presence  of  thy  God  ; 

And  ask  what  principles  control, — 
Love,  or  the  terror  of  the  rod  ? 

All  legal  hopes  renounce,  renounce  ! 

Dream  not  in  vain  the  law  was  made  ; 
And  Conscience  hears  that  law  denounce 

Its  fearful  curse  upon  thy  head. 

4  The  soul  that  sinneth  it  shall  die  ;' — 
Before  that  doom  how  canst  thou  stand 

Or  how,  or  whither,  wilt  thou  fly 

For  shelter  from  the  Avenger's  hand  ? 

To  thee,  to  thee,  dear  Lamb  of  God ! 

On  thee  I  rest  my  trembling  plea ; 
For  thou  hast  poured  thy  precious  blood, 

A  sacrifice  for  such  as  me ! 

O  thou,  my  Judge  !  thou  wilt  not  spurn 
The  poor  transgressor  at  thy  feet ! 

But  thy  benignant  eye  will  turn, 
And  say,  '  In  me  thou  art  complete  ! 

*  My  spirit's  searching  hand  shall  probe, 
And  heal  the  deadly  wounds  of  sin ; 

My  righteousness,  a  glorious  robe, 
Shall  o'er  thy  soul  in  beauty  shine. 

'Into  the  family  of  God, 

I  place  thee,  an  adopted  child ; 


HYMNS.  255 

Within  thee  shed  his  love  abroad  ; 
He  is  thy  Father  reconciled  ! 

On  earth  I  crown  thy  life  with  grace, 

With  glory  I  from  earth  dismiss ; 
Heaven  is  thy  future  dwelling-place, 

Eternity  thy  date  of  bliss  ! ' 
1819. 


A  WANDERING  HEART  LAMENTED. 

O,  what  a  wretched  heart  is  mine, 
So  prone  to  wander  from  the  Lord ; 

So  easily  seduced  to  sin, 

Against  the  warnings  of  his  word  ! 

Well  may  my  soul  within  me  grieve, 
And  ask  if  thus  it  still  must  be, 

That  I  should  love,  and  yet  should  leave 
That  heavenly  Friend  who  died  for  me  ! 

Is  there,  in  all  the  world  beside, 
One  object  worthy  to  compete 

With  him  who  loved,  and  bled,  and  died, 

To  raise  me  to  his  holy  seat  ? 

■» 
O,  when  I  first  beheld  his  face, 

In  faith's  pure  atmosphere  of  light, 

I  saw  such  majesty  and  grace, 

As  riveted  my  ravished  sight. 


256  hymns. 

But  I  have  wandered  far  away 
From  Jesus,  once  so  justly  dear; 

In  dark,  forbidden  paths  I  stray, 

Where  his  sweet  smiles  no  longer  cheer. 

And  do  I  now  his  absence  mourn, 
And  say  that  Jesus  hides  his  face  ? 

O,  no  !    He  calls  me  to  return, 

And  taste  the  sweets  of  pardoning  grace 

Amazing  mercy  !  thus  to  call, 

In  love's  soft  tones,  to  one  like  me  ! 

Lord  !  at  thy  feet  in  tears  I  fall, 

And  give  this  wandering  heart  to  thee  ! 


SUPPLICATION. 

Yes,  I  will  pray,  O  God,  forgive ! 
Let  an  imploring  sinner  live  ! 
Turn  not  away  thy  face,  O  Lord  ! 
Deny  me  not  one  pardoning  word  ! 

'Tis  for  thy  love  I  plead,  I  mourn , 
When  will  that  love  to  me  return  ? 
I  would  not  be  rebellious  still ; 
O,  teach  me,  Lord,  to  do  thy  will ! 

Hear  me,  O,  hear,  and  at  my  call, 
Release  my  soul  from  Satan's  thrall , 


HYMNS.  257 

From  guilt  and  anguish  set  me  free, 
My  only  Help,  I  look  to  thee  ! 

Is  not  the  life  of  grace  begun 
By  faith  in  thine  incarnate  Son  ? 
And  can  that  gracious  life  begin, 
Yet  fail  beneath  the  power  of  sin  ? 

Not  so  thy  holy  word  I  read ; 
Not  such  the  promises  I  plead  ; 
Not  for  this  end  was  grace  applied  ; 
Not  for  this  end  a  Savior  died  ! 

O,  then  thy  work  of  grace  renew ! 
I  trust  thy  word  to  bear  me  through ; 
I  trust  the  great  Redeemer's  blood, 
To  seal  my  peace  with  thee,  my  God  ! 

Save  me  from  each  besetting  sin 
That  works  without,  or  works  within  ; 
To  my  own  weakness  leave  me  not, 
But  keep  me  pure,  without  a  spot. 

Remind  me  of  my  heavenly  birth, 
And  wean  me  more  and  more  from  earth , 
That  days  and  years,  as  on  they  roll, 
May  bear  me  to  my  heavenly  goal  ! 
Oct.  5,  1819. 
22* 


253  HYMNS. 


THE    CHRISTIAN    WARFARE. 

Ephes.  vi.  10—17. 

Brethren  in  Christ !  this  day  we  meet 
Upon  our  earthly  battle  field  ; 

And  cordially  each  other  greet, 

For  still  the  Spirit's  sword  we  wield. 

Assembled  at  our  Savior's  call, 
We  rally  round  his  banner  bright ; 

Sworn  in  this  glorious  war  to  fall, 
Or  put  the  hosts  of  hell  to  flight. 

The  hosts  of  hell  are  deadly  foes ; 

We  war  not  here  with  flesh  and  blood ; 
In  sterner  strife  we  daily  close 

With  every  enemy  of  God ! 

Brethren  in  Christ !  no  truce  is  here, 
And  sleepless  vigilance  alone 

Can  guard  us  from  the  foe  we  fear, 
Or  seat  us  on  our  Master's  throne ! 
Buffalo,  1824. 


HYMNS.  259 


IN    A    TIME    OF    DECLENSION. 

Small  our  success  of  late  !    Our  Chief 
Withholds  him  from  our  faint  request', 

And  we  are  drunk  with  bitter  grief, 
While  others  are  in  triumph  blest. 

Is  this  a  time  for  us  to  sleep — 
A  time  to  think  of  selfish  ease  ? 

Is  it  not  time  for  us  to  weep, 
And  supplicate  his  sympathies  ? 

Who  is  there  here  so  base  to-day, 
That  he  would  slumber  on  the  field  ? 

Who  is  there,  in  this  battle  fray, 

Would  vilely  throw  away  his  shield  ? 

Would  we  not  share  the  glorious  spoils, 
When  loud  the  shouts  of  triumph  rise  t 

Who  then  would  shun  the  transient  toils 
In  this,  his  Savior's  enterprise  ? 

Rouse,  brethren,  rouse  at  his  command, 
Gird  on  your  panoply  divine  ; 

And  compact,  as  the  Spartan  band, 
For  Christ,  and  for  salvation,  join ! 
1824. 


260  HYMNS. 


CHRISTIAN    CONFERENCE. 
Ephes.  to.  3—6. 

Welcome,  welcome,  dearest  brothers, 
Welcome,  welcome,  sisters  dear  ! 

Each  one's  joy  the  joy  of  others, 

Springs  and  smiles  to  meet  you  here. 

One  the  Hope  of  our  high  calling, 
One  the  Savior  that  we  own ; 

He  will  keep  our  feet  from  falling, 
As  we  travel  towards  his  throne. 

But  one  Faith,  one  Baptism,  knowing, 
Children  of  one  Father's  heart; 

But  one  Spirit  in  us  glowing, 

What  should  keep  our  souls  apart  ? 

Meeting  in  the  name  of  Jescs, 
We  his  gracious  promise  claim  ; 

He  from  sin  and  sorrow  frees  us, 
And  reveals  his  charming  name. 

While  our  fervent  prayer  is  rising, 
While  our  choral  hymn  ascends ; 

Sweet  communion  realizing, 
Rapture  with  instruction  blends 
1824. 


HYMNS.  261 

REFLECTIONS    AT    A    SOCIAL    MEETING. 

Matt,  xviii.  19,  20. 

Brethren  and  sisters,  are  we  met 

In  our  exalted  Master's  name  ? 
And  are  our  glowing  spirits  set 

On  him  whose  love  is  still  the  same  ? 

This  moment,  from  his  glorious  skies, 

He  looks  upon  this  little  band  ; 
And  can  we  meet  his  piercing  eyes, 

Can  we  his  righteous  judgment  stand  ? 

Would  we  from  sin  be  wholly  free  ? 

Would  we  be  trained  for  joys  above  ? 
And  wish  our  friends  and  foes  to  be 

Made  happy  in  the  Savior's  love  ? 

O  fellow  Christians,  loved  and  dear  ! 

Awake  !    the  trump  of  glory  calls  ; 
Our  heavenly  Leader  meets  us  here, 

And  triumph  shouts  on  Zion's  walls. 
1824. 


HYMNS, 

SELECTED  FROM  THE  MSS.  OF  MY  FATHER. 

RESIGNATION. 

God  is  holy,  wise,  and  good, 
He's  the  kind,  unchanging  God  ; 
What  He  does  can  ne'er  be  wrong — 
This  shall  be  my  constant  song. 

If  He  choose  that  I  shall  share 
Largely  in  domestic  care, 
Why  should  I  complain  of  this  ? 
Doing  right  affords  me  peace. 

If  He  choose  that  I  shall  live, 
And  increasing  joys  receive 
All  the  praise  to  Him  is  due, 
Let  me  live  to  Him  anew. 

Since  His  way  is  hid  from  me, 
Let  me  never  anxious  be  ; 
But  submissive  to  His  choice, 
Live,  and  in  His  name  rejoice. 


264  HYMNS. 

He  has  all  things  at  command  : 
From  His  wise  and  gracious  hand, 
When  we  need  them,  blessings  flow, 
And  his  children  cheer  below. 

If  the  lure  of  earthly  charms 
Tempt  us  from  his  gracious  arms, 
He  will  hedge  up  every  way, 
Where  our  heedless  footsteps  stray. 

Dearest  Lord,  be  thou  my  guide, 
In  thy  name  may  I  confide  ; 
Ceaseless  praise  to  thee  is  due, 
Thou  hast  helped  me  hitherto. 

Guide  and  guard  me  to  the  end, 
O  thou  kind,  unchanging  Friend  ! 
Till  I  in  thy  bosom  rest, 
Perfect  and  forever  blest. 

1807. 


THE    REVIVAL    OF     1807. 

Auspicious  time  of  light  and  love  ! 
Our  God  has  blest  us  from  above  ; 
With  power  divine  the  word  of  truth 
Arrests  the  heedless  mind  of  youth. 


HYMNS.  265 

Their  gay  delights,  their  golden  schemes, 
Now  all  appear  like  idle  dreams  ; 
Their  hearts  for  sin  are  whelmed  in  grief, 
Nor  can  the  world  afford  relief. 

On  thee,  kind  Savior,  now  they  call, 
Low  at  thy  feet  they  humbly  fall ; 
They  mourn  their  sins  and  follies  past ; 
O  let  them  pardoning  mercies  taste  ! 

Thy  pardoning  mercy  freely  flows ; 
Thy  Spirit  life  divine  bestows ; 
They  rise  forgiven  from  thy  feet ; 
They  live,  thy  wonders  to  repeat. 

With  rapturous  joy  we  hear  them  speak, 
They  call  their  friends  thy  grace  to  seek ; 
They  tell  of  that  unbounded  love, 
That  gave  them  hope  of  joys  above. 

They  mourn  that  any  should  despise 
Their  gracious  Friend  above  the  skies ; 
And  by  their  sins  his  frown  insure, 
And  everlasting  pains  endure. 

Dear  Savior  !  let  thy  glory  shine  ; 
Let  sinners  see  thee  all  divine  ! 
And  let  thy  bright,  celestial  charms 
Allure  them  to  thy  gracious  arms. 
23 


266  HYMNS. 


ALL    IS    WELL. 

In  God's  dealings  with  mankind, 
Wisdom  is  with  goodness  joined  ; 
This  should  quiet  every  fear, 
Day  by  day,  and  year  by  year. 

Why  for  me  a  path  He  chose, 
Where  so  much  of  sorrow  flows, 
Is  not  in  my  power  to  tell, 
But  in  all  things  He  does  well. 

In  my  God  I  fulness  see  ; 
All  his  dealings  towards  me, 
Flow  from  his  paternal  care  ; 
Why,  O  why  should  I  despair  ? 

When  I  turn  my  thoughts  above, 
And  behold  his  boundless  love, 
Lovely  doth  the  Savior  shine, 
To  a  needy  soul  like  mine. 

Though  I  have  a  painful  lot, 
Yet  my  Savior  changeth  not ; 
Though  the  world  despise  and  frown, 
He  can  shower  his  blessings  down. 
1807. 


HYMNS.  267 


DIVINE    FRIENDSHIP. 

Friendship,  thou  sweet,  endearing  tie  ! 

If  I'm  a  stranger  to  thy  charms, 
Fly  quick,  my  soul,  to  Jesus  fly, 

And  rest  in  his  celestial  arms. 

Although  our  earthly  friends  forsake, 
In  the  dark  hour  when  troubles  rise  ; 

Our  hearts  with  sorrow  seem  to  break, 
Yet  faith  to  Heaven  lifts  up  her  eyes. 

There  she  beholds  our  gracious  Friend, 
Waiting  to  send  his  blessings  down, 

To  guide  and  guard  us  to  the  end, 

And  then  confer  Life's  glorious  crown. 

Then  let  my  troubles  here  increase, 
I  still  will  run  my  Christian  race ; 

From  him  will  draw  my  strength  and  peace, 
And,  dying,  rest  in  his  embrace. 

1808. 


THE    CHOICE. 

Give  me  honor,  give  me  pleasure, 
Give  me  affliction  or  disgrace  ; 


268  HYMNS. 

Give  me  poverty  or  treasure, 
Bat  grant  me,  Lord,  thy  smiling  face. 

To  thy  gracious  care  and  keeping, 
My  dearest  friends  will  I  resign  ; 

Every  billow  o'er  me  sweeping, 
Shall  purify  this  heart  of  mine. 
1808. 


PRIDE. 


Temptations  oft  my  mind  assault, 
And  strongly  urge  me  to  find  fault 
With  that  sublime,  mysterious  plan, 
Through  which  salvation  flows  to  man. 

Perhaps  my  reasonings  are  from  pride, 
That  false,  delusive,  dangerous  guide  ; 
That  foe  to  every  thing  that's  good, 
Opposing  all  the  ways  of  God. 

That  pride  by  which  the  angels  fell, 
Which  plunged  them  in  the  depths  of  hell, 
Has  all  my  mortal  powers  defiled, 
And  made  my  thoughts  and  notions  wild. 

God  has  a  just  and  sovereign  right 
To  sink  me  in  eternal  night ; 


HYMNS.  269 

Yet  my  proud  spirit  will  complain 
That  this  frail  body  suffers  pain. 

Each  thought,  each  reasoning,  and  desire, 
Which  God  does  not  by  grace  inspire, 
Is  mingled  and  defded  with  sin, 
Is  all  unholy  and  unclean. 

'Tis  from  this  vile,  polluted  source, 
Millions,  forced  from  bad  to  worse, 
Despise  the  most  essential  good, 
And  perish,  enemies  to  God. 

Sure  such  had  been  my  wretched  case. 
But  for  the  influence  of  grace  ; 
This  only  turned  my  steps  from  hell, 
Where  I  so  much  deserved  to  dwell. 

If  I  could  weep  my  life  away, 
And  mingle  with  my  native  clay, 
Or  sink  to  everlasting  pain, 
It  would  not  cleanse  a  single  stain. 

From  pride,  self-will,  and  unbelief, 
May  Heaven  in  mercy  grant  relief; 
And  in  each  dafrk  and  dangerous  hour 
Uphold  me  with  Almighty  power. 
1809. 

23* 


270  HYMNS. 


CHRISTIAN    EXPERIENCE. 

The  many  changes  I've  past  through, 
With  wonder,  grief  and  joy  I  view  ; 
Astonished  that  on  one  so  vile, 
A  Savior  could  in  mercy  smile  ; 

Yet  fear  that  I  deceived  have  been, 
By  some  unknown  and  secret  sin  ; 
Afraid  to  trust  my  sinful  heart, 
So  much  defiled  in  every  part. 

I  fear  presumption  or  despair 
Will  prove  at  last  my  fatal  snare ; 
Yet  hope  some  rays  of  heavenly  light 
Still  shine  to  guide  my  steps  aright. 

To  heaven  at  times  I  lift  my  cry, 
For  fresh  assistance  from  on  high  j 
At  times  my  sorrow  vent  in  tears, 
That  sin  so  much  defiles  my  prayers. 

O  would  my  God  my  soul  inspire 
With  humble  faith  and  pure  desire ; 
Then  I  should  not  his  Spirit  grieve, 
But  ask,  and  as  a  child  receive, 
1809. 


HYMNS.  271 


ENCOURAGEMENT    IN    AFFLICTION. 

O  ye  tried  and  mourning  children 
Of  the  kind  and  gracious  God ; 

Though  you  walk  through  tribulation, 
"lis  the  way  your  Savior  trod. 

Why  then  sink  ye  in  dejection, 

When  your  gracious  Friend  on  high, 

Still  affords  his  kind  protection, 
Still  to  you  is  ever  nigh? 

Soon  to  you  the  heavenly  portal 
Will  unfold  the  bliss  above  ; 

You  shall  feast  on  joys  immortal, 
In  the  realms  of  '  perfect  love.' 

In  the  whole  of  your  behavior 

Show  your  heart  is  centred  there ; 

Where  you'll  see  your  loving  Savior, 
And  his  full  affection  share. 

There  you'll  gaze  upon  his  glory, 
With  the  ransomed  saints  above  ; 

Dwelling  on  the  rapturous  story 
Of  his  free  and  boundless  love. 


272  HYMNS. 

Why  then  sink  in  deep  dejection, 
Why  then  faint  beneath  the  rod  ? 

His  is  an  unchanged  affection, 
He  is  an  unchanging  God. 
1810. 


COMMUNION    WITH    GOD. 

The  glorious  Friend  of  sinners, 
His  blessing  doth  bestow 

Upon  his  humble  children, 
While  they  sojourn  below. 

He  sends  his  holy  Spirit 
To  call  them  by  his  grace  ■ 

To  trust  in  Jesus'  merit, 
And  see  his  smiling  face. 

By  faith  they  see  the  Savior, 
And  on  his  beauties  gaze  ; 

Thus  every  true  believer 
Will  love,  adore,  and  praise. 

Their  hearts  enjoy  a  union 
With  their  celestial  Friend ; 

They  live  in  sweet  communion, 
And  on  his  grace  depend 
Athens,  N.  Y.  1610. 


HYMNS.  273 


REJOICING    IN    HOPE. 

Charmed  with  the  pleasing  prospect 

Of  glory  all  divine  ; 
Where  everlasting  beauties 

In  full  effulgence  shine  ; 
My  soul  with  sweet  emotion, 

Those  beauties  would  pursue  ; 
And  drink  rich  consolation, 

.While  glory  is  in  view. 

The  moments  are  delightful 

We  spend  in  such  a  frame  ; 
They  yield  sweet  confirmation 

We  love  the  Savior's  name. 
No  doubts,  no  fears  disturb  us, 

Our  hearts  are  drawn  above ; 
By  faith  we  view  the  Savior, 

And  feast  upon  his  love. 
1810. 


HEAVEN    NEAR. 

Soon  shall  we  leave  earth's  dreary  clime, 
And  to  celestial  mansions  rise  ; 

Where  Virtue  holds  her  court  sublime, 
And  pure  Devotion  never  dies* 


274  HYMN?. 

There  pain,  and  fear,  and  mortal  care, 
Sorrow,  and  sin,  shall  never  come  ; 

The  world  no  more  shall  spread  its  snare 
In  the  believer's  heavenly  home. 

Let  worldlings  boast  of  all  the  bliss 
That  earthly  grandeur  can  bestow; 

They're  strangers  to  the  solid  peace 
And  joy  that  true  believers  know. 

Then,  Christians,  wait  a  little  space, 
And  on  your  Savior  cast  your  care ; 

With  patience  run  your  heavenward  race, 
And  in  those  blessings  you  shall  share. 
1810. 


MY    LOT. 

My  mind,  perplexed  with  frequent  cares, 
Increasing  with  increasing  years, 
Is  brought  to  know  and  feel  the  sting, 
That  adverse  changes  often  bring. 

No  pleasing  prospects  cheer  my  mind 
Of  better  days,  of  friends  more  kind ; 
No  firmer  health  is  mine  to  know, 
While  I  remain  on  earth  below. 


HYMNS.  275 

Yet  in  this  melancholy  state, 
With  calm  submission  I  would  wait ; 
And  leave  my  cares  with  God  above, 
Who  shows  me  still  such  marks  of  love. 

The  joys  he  gives  are  all  refined, 
They  cheer  and  animate  my  mind ; 
From  anxious  fears  my  soul  release, 
And  fill  me  with  celestial  peace. 
Hudson,  JV.  Y.  1815. 


MY    HOPE. 

Sure  there  is  a  heavenly  mansion, 
Where  immortal  beauties  shine  ; 

And  the  soul  with  sweet  expansion 
Feasts  on  pleasures  all  divine. 

Thither  souls  by  grace  refining, 

When  they  leave  this  cumbrous  clay, 

To  their  Savior's  will  resigning, 

Swift  as  thought  will  wing  their  way. 

Doubts  and  fears  forever  ceasing, 
In  that  world  of  endless  joy  ; 

Light  and  love  and  bliss  increasing, 
Praise  shall  be  their  sweet  employ. 


276  HYMNS. 

Though  unworthy  my  behavior, 
There  I  hope  to  share  a  part ; 

Through  the  friendship  of  my  Savior, 
Whose  dear  cause  lies  near  my  heart. 
1815. 


